


Always Find My Way Back to You

by bethepuck



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Cheating, College Hockey, Drinking, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Minor Character(s), Partying, Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2018-06-10 08:56:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6949567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethepuck/pseuds/bethepuck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kris and Marc meet freshmen year in college and hit it off the wrong way; the two are forced to fix the rift between them as the season approaches head on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Impressions

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write a fic with this pairing for THE longest time, but I've never had the inspiration or opportunity to. I've also been very tempted to write a college hockey au fic. And since there seems to be a serious lack of fics with MAF and Tanger (and because I haven't seen any pics or gifs of them together lately...? Did they stop being tight...? Ver. sad) I decided to wing it... 
> 
> Side note: Duper is still on the team (I don't care if he's not in real life he is in this fictional story dammit)  
> **Kris' amazing hair is still on the team as well (I don't care if he cut it off, for now it's still on the team because I want it to be)
> 
> Extra side note: When quoted text is in italics, that means it's in French (French Canadian to be exact... it sounds completely different from traditional French and is all slangy and is way better than traditional French) and I didn't feel like writing it in French because then I'd have to translate it for people who don't read the language and it's just easier to pretend. Unquoted sentences that are italicized represent Marc's inner thoughts...

Sun dances through the broad leaves of the big oak trees lining the path, dipping in and out of breaks in the foliage. Keeping under the shade to avoid the scorching August heat, Marc bounds up the steps to the rink two by two, pulling open the large glass doors for the first time since he visited last fall as a senior in high school. Cool air rushes to greet him as he steps inside. The ice has been taken down and the place is pretty dimly lit, but Marc is excited to be a part of it nonetheless. He takes the stairs to the back where the locker and maintenance rooms are, grinning as his eyes rest on their team colors of gold, black, and white.

For a while, Marc was told that college hockey was a stretch, that he wasn’t big enough or fast enough for hockey at that level. No way would he get recruited to go to college directly; he’d have to play three years of juniors at least. His prep school coaches said that most of the guys are satisfied with just playing club hockey and that Marc should too. But, after a growth spurt sophomore year and a summer of intense off ice training, suddenly _everyone_ wanted him, and Marc would get the chance to play for the third best D1 college hockey team on the east coast and possibly win a national championship. He worked his ass off to play for Pittsburgh; he deserves this.

Voices carry down the hall from the locker room and Marc freezes, but only for a moment because he can totally handle this. He’s been on totally new teams before… this isn’t scary. Except it really fucking is. He pushes open the door to the locker room, and some of the guys look over, but most don’t. He notices that they’re all pretty tall and built like trucks, broad shoulders and thick legs; it’s a little intimidating.

A few of the guys stand by their lockers, hanging new gear up, talking lightly, while the rest wait to be fitted for pants and skates and whatnot. The atmosphere is relaxed, almost welcoming, and Marc proceeds to the locker marked with “Fleury #29.” He searches around the room for anyone he might recognize, anyone from the freshman groupchat they made a few weeks back who might speak up. They had made the groupchat to get to know each other before the season started, but it proved pointless because everyone was too embarrassed or too quiet to use it.

When Duper comes over, sensing Marc’s slight discomfort, the goalie is relieved. Marc met Pascal last year on his official visit, and since, Duper has kept a close eye out for his little French-Canadian buddy.

Marc grins softly as the senior thumps him good-naturedly on the shoulder. It’s some kind of comfort when Duper engages a quiet conversation in heavily accented French.

 _“Excited?”_ the older player sits down next to Marc in his stall.

 _“If you call shitting your pants ‘excited’ then totally,”_ Marc replies, rubbing his palms up and down his pant legs nervously.

 _“Oh, don’t be dramatic, Flower, everybody’ll love you,”_ Duper fiddles with the national championship ring on his finger. Marc eyes it, a little envious, but knowing he’d probably do the same thing if he’d won a national championship too.

 _“But, the other freshmen are so…”_ Flower looks around the room. No one really seems to be listening to their conversation. There’s a guy at the middle of the room messing around at his locker who briefly glances over, but Marc ignores it.

 _“So what?”_ Duper traces Marc’s stare, smirking a bit.

 _“They’re so… boring, I guess. None of them talk or anything,”_ Marc shrugs, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

 _“Then you’ll fit right in,”_ Duper replies. The guy at his stall glances over once more, face serious, before stalking off in the direction of the equipment room.

 _“Who was that?”_ Marc nods toward the broad figure moving away.

 _“Kris Letang. One sec_ ,” Duper stands, “Kris! Wait up!”

Kris pauses and turns around, face unamused, as Duper motions for Marc to come over. He’s wearing a Pens hat with a soft, faded pale gray under armour tee and a pair of those preppy Vineyard Vines shorts in a powder blue. Kris is well built, shirt clinging to his biceps and pecs, shorts framing powerful thighs and a strong backside. Not that Marc was looking or anything. His face is handsome, a cut jawline and faint stubble, no doubt a hit with the ladies. Kris pulls off his hat to reveal longish locks of dark hair underneath. He runs his fingers through it, while deep, brown eyes switch back and forth across Marc’s face, before replacing the hat back on his head.

“Flower, this is Kris Letang, Tanger, this is Marc-Andre Fleury,” Duper grins wide, like a proud dad.

“Nice to meet you, man,” Marc sticks his hand out to shake Kris’ but Kris just stares back at it darkly.

 _“I would say nice to meet you, but you’re a bit too boring for my standards,” _Kris spits out quickly. Duper laughs and Marc shifts uncomfortably, face growing hot.

“I didn’t know you spoke—,” Marc begins, embarrassed.

“Yeah, I do,” Kris states blandly, giving one lasting glare before continuing towards the equipment room.

Duper is losing it.

“You knew he—,” Marc whips to face Duper.

“Of course I did. Don’t talk crap about your teammates, Flower, this isn’t middle school,” Duper is still smiling bright enough to blind.

“Great, now he hates me,” Marc wants to sulk.

“No he _doesn’t_ , God, you’re so dramatic. Tanger’s a good kid, he’s not going to cross you off his list the first day of freshman year because you called him _boring_. This is college, who gives a shit?” Duper shoves Marc’s shoulder before grabbing a pair of skates off the rack, checking the blade.

“Me? Dramatic? What about _him?_ ” Marc sputters, taken aback.

“Get to know him a little better before you make a judgment call, Flower,” is all Duper says before he’s walking in the other direction to the maintenance quarters to get his skates sharpened.

 

***

It was their captain, Sid’s, idea to go paintballing to encourage team bonding, although Marc thinks that Kunitz and Geno might have had something to do with persuading him. The bus ride is only thirty minutes out of the city, but Duper refuses to let Marc sit next to him, so he can “make friends with the other rookies instead of sitting with an old man,” and Marc opts to sit next to Beau instead of Kris, who eyes him dubiously from a window seat. Bad choice. Beau doesn’t shut the hell up the whole ride, even when Marc pulls out his phone to show that he’s really not interested in hearing about Beau’s family trip to Cape Cod last summer and how Aunt Mae got her flip flop stuck in a crack in the boardwalk. He’s a nervous talker, Marc recognizes that much. All the while Kris is sitting in cordial conversation across the aisle with Hagelin, Pouliot, and Olli, the other three freshmen. But, Marc doesn’t care. He’ll make friends with time. He doesn’t need to be tight with the other freshmen just yet. It doesn’t matter if Kris is cracking jokes (that aren’t even that funny by the way) and talking about Montreal and his terrible high school coach and the other freshman are drawn in by his witty anecdotes.

Marc is relieved when the bus pulls to a stop in front of a highly forested area all done up with wooden barracks and metal barriers, splattered with red and blue paint. The weather isn’t the best for outdoor team bonding activities. Rain peppers the terrain, leaving the course muddy and slick.

The teams are split up into defensemen and goalies vs. forwards, which _really_ isn’t fair in Marc’s mind because if all the defense are on one team, then who’s going to play offense? Derrick and Kris stand next to each other, talking quietly as Lovejoy reads off the rules and safety guidelines. Marc watches them converse and is only a little jealous.

“It is recommended to stick to a buddy system if this is your first time,” Ben reads in a monotone voice. No one is really listening. Most people just play with their masks and complain about how hot the body suits are. Marc is sure that Derrick and Kris are already partners, not that Marc cares. Kris runs his fingers through his hair, catching Marc’s gaze, smile defusing off his face.

“Remember: no head shots or crotch shots, and most importantly, have fun!” Ben’s voice permeates the air, sounding like it’s coming from a tunnel, tone about as exciting as listening to the news.

They grab their rifles as the horn sounds and scatter about the course. Olli is sort of Marc’s partner, but Marc chooses to shake him off within the first five minutes because screw Ben’s rules and screw team bonding; Marc would rather be sitting on his bed in his dorm room than have to deal with Kris’ stupid attitude. Marc crawls through a metal barrel to avoid the crossfire between Kessel and the senior goalie, Vokoun. Marc isn’t _angry_ that Kris isn’t talking to him, they don’t even _know_ each other. He stumbles out of the barrel back into the rain, slipping for a moment in the muck before breaking into a run. Who cares if Kris is talking to all the other freshmen except Marc? Sheary from across the course steps out from behind a wooden barrack and Marc nails him in the shoulder. He laughs as he slowly collapses into the mud, grabbing his arm. It’s Kris’ fault if he’s so sensitive to being called boring, what is he, twelve? Can’t he take one little insult? How was Marc supposed to know that Kris speaks the messy French Canadian that Duper and Marc speak? He couldn’t have possibly known that. This is Kris’ fault, he just needs to grow up about things and learn to move on from what other people say. And what does he even want Marc to do? Apologize? That’s just ridiculous, Marc didn’t even _do_ anything. Kris doesn’t have to be so salty about the whole thing it was just a joke. Marc hears a shot taken from behind him and there’s a sharp pain in his hamstring.

“Fuck me,” he cusses, turning quickly around, grabbing the back of his leg where a red paintball broke against his skin. He searches the area for the culprit that struck him. Nobody shows themselves, so Marc makes his way in that direction, crouching low. Maybe if Kris wasn’t so childish they would’ve sat next to each other on the bus and talked instead of silently ignored each other like an ex-couple. Stupid. The rain is thick and hard to see through. Duper said this was college, right? And everyone’s supposed to be mature? Yeah, sure. Kris is being such a child. Marc rounds a corner and pulls his trigger without hesitation, a blue bullet landing square between the shoulder blades of his victim who was on one knee looking from behind a metal barrel.

The figure stiffens and stands before turning around. The front of his body suit is splattered with red paint like the kind on the back of Marc’s leg. Slowly, the person removes his mask to glare at Marc through those dark, venomous eyes.

“What the fuck,” is all Kris says slowly, deliberately, standing there in the rain, a stray strand of hair sticking to his face.

“It was an accident,” is all Marc can say, dumbfounded. _Of all people? Really?_

“Was it?” Kris challenges, crossing his arms.

“Of course!” Marc defends, uncomfortable.

“Then so was this,” Kris lets the trigger go, like it took no effort at all, sending a shot into Marc’s upper thigh.

“Ow! God dammit! The hell is your problem?” Marc grabs his leg.

Kris stares, deadpan as usual, “Now we’re even.”

“No? We’re not?” Marc replies.

Kris turns and tugs his mask on again.

Fuck this guy, seriously. Marc sprints toward Kris, tackling him to the ground, landing not so softly in a thick puddle of brown.

“Get off of me,” Kris growls, squirming in the mud, using his hands to push Marc away.

Kris writhes on his hands and knees in the other direction, but Marc snags hold of his calf and pulls him back down before he can get up to run away.

“Not until you tell me what the fuck your problem is!” Marc retorts, flaming angry.

Kris tries to kick him, but Marc grabs hold of his forearm and yanks himself to kneel over Kris, hands shoving his shoulders into the ground, pinning him as he tries to buck the goalie off.

“Let go!” Kris insists, but Marc isn’t one to give in easily. He’s breathing hard, chest rising and falling heavily.

“Why are you being such a dick to me? I didn’t do anything!” Marc snaps.

And then Kris stops struggling for a moment to stare up with a dangerous glare,

_“Because you’re a cocky, know-it-all son of a bitch who thinks he can just walk in here and have everyone worship him like they did in high school.”_

Marc wants to punch him in the face. He’s three beats away from driving his fist through Kris’ teeth.

“What’s going on?” a voice from behind calls. It’s Kessel standing with Sid, Geno, and Hornqvist.

Kris shoves Marc off him.

“He shot me,” Kris states flatly.

“He shot me back,” Marc retorts quickly.

“C’mon guys, it was just a little friendly fire. Accidents happen,” Sid smiles.

_But, it wasn’t a fucking accident Kris shot at me on purpose don’t you get it, he’s psycho._

Kris gets up out of the mud and doesn’t offer a hand to Marc, marching off in the other direction, no doubt to complain to Duper.

During lunch, when Marc tells Duper what really happens, the senior basically blows him off, “Everyone fights with their teammates, this is no different. It takes time to get used to each other.”

“He shot at me. _Deliberately_. That’s gotta be a little different than just fighting over who has to fill up the waters,” Marc grabs another sandwich half.

Kris is sitting way down at the end of the picnic table with Derrick and Daley, no doubt making alliances.

“Just give it a _rest,_ Flower,” Duper sighs.

On the ride back to campus, Sid exiles Kris and Marc to the back of the bus to “work out your issues like adults,” which is the stupidest Goddamn resolution Marc has ever heard because forcing them to spend more time together could only cause _more_ issues.

They sit on opposite sides of the aisle at window seats, as far away from possible. Neither speak to each other for a while, just glaring out the window saltily.

“You know this is your fault, right?” Marc says after a significant period of silence.

Music is blaring throughout the bus and the rest of the guys are fully occupied with seeing who knows more words to the One Direction song playing.

Kris scoffs, swiping a hand through his wet hair. There’s mud on his face and slight bruising on his cheekbone just below his eye where Marc’s hand might have accidentally slipped once or twice.

“Just apologize and admit it,” Marc states calmly.

“Me? Apologize? What for?” Kris grins sarcastically, exposing his white teeth like a shark.

“For being a huge dick and shooting me. Oh, and also for being a huge dick? Did I mention that? You were being a dick to me? Because you were. Being a dick. To me. So you should apologize for that,” Marc mimics his sarcasm.

Kris just glares and turns the other way.

Fine. If Kris wants to make this difficult, then he can go right ahead. Marc couldn’t care less.

The rest of the bus ride is spent in stubborn silence and Marc is relieved that Kris lives in the other freshman dorm at the opposite end of campus so he doesn’t have to see his stupid face on the walk back.

 

 

Extra:

 

 


	2. Practice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More really lame immature fighting pretty much lol srry

Practices start on Tuesday after the ice is put down that next week. Marc shares the net with the veteran starter, Vokoun, and a walk on, Murray. Murray is a nice kid, younger than Marc, and shy in almost every aspect, but still a pretty decent goalie. If he’d gone to a different college, he might have been a starter there, but with Vokoun and Marc in front of him, no way. Marc is still nice to him anyway. Annoyingly enough, Kris isn’t _terrible—_ he’s actually very skilled and makes smart, complex plays that force the offensive. Marc hates it.

Coach likes to end practices with half-ice mini games to keep things fun at the beginning of the season. Vokoun takes the black team net and Marc, the white team. Murray waits patiently on one knee at the blue line knowing full well that he won’t be participating in the last drill of practice.

It’s three on three plus one, a game they played every once in a while at his prep school and is only fun if the teams were even. Kris, Sid, and Geno take the ice for the white team, Geno grinning and assuring Marc that they won’t let anyone score. Kris leans over his stick, eying Marc. His temper is subdued for now and simply takes to ignoring Marc and shooting him heated side-glances. Dark hair spills out from underneath Kris’ helmet, contrasting the white of his practice jersey.

Play starts when coach blows the whistle and the teams stutter into motion. Geno takes the forecheck and Sid takes the right side to block a pass while Kris swings low to provide support. Kessel takes the puck down the boards for the black team, looking for an outlet, and receiving none, taking a hard check to the boards from Kris that rattles the glass. The puck squirts back to Sid who cuts to the middle, promptly missing the net and hitting the far boards like thunder, but holding his tongue before cussing in order to set a good example for the other players that we work hard and improve ourselves on this team instead of cussing and throwing a tantrum. With a new puck, Daley sends a stretch pass to an unguarded Beau who has a direct lane to the net. The rookie makes use of his space, and Marc steps out to the top of an invisible crease. Beau has nowhere to shoot, Marc knows it, he’ll probably end up panicking and shooting it glove side and Marc will be able to make the easy save and everyone will see how skilled he is, even coach (he _is_ battling for Vokoun’s starting position, _isn’t_ he?). Beau shifts his weight, releasing the shot, but Kris, backchecking hard, slides out in front of the line of fire to block the shot. The guys on the boards tap their sticks as coach blows the whistle for a line change. Marc glares and Kris skates by, grin dropping from his face.

“What is it now?” Kris’ tone is irritated and murky as he passes, like he just _knew_ that Marc could’ve made the easy save but chose to block the shot anyway because he _could._

With five minutes until the end of practice, Vokoun switches nets with Marc, a truly doltish decision indeed. Kuni attempts to make a unnecessary, risky cross ice pass to Fehr and Kris easily tips it off, thundering down the ice with such power in his strides. Flower takes good depth and cuts him off before he can actually make a move, catching Kris’ skates with his stick, sending him sliding. Kris doesn’t say anything, just gets back in line wordlessly, but Marc can almost hear the angry little storm clouds brewing in the defenseman’s head. Kris’ next shift is spent on actual defense, and Marc is a little relieved he doesn’t get an opportunity to unleash his storm clouds. The last shift of practice, the white team has added an extra player, Rust, and they set up a four on three in an umbrella shape, Kris at the top with the puck, Beau and Duper setting up a double screen in front with Olli attempting to push the two other boys out. Kris cycles the puck around the top, but Marc knows he’s going to shoot it because he knows Kris knows that Marc can’t see shit through the three bodies in front. Marc hears the shot taken, but has no idea where it is until it’s over his shoulder, blocker side, hitting twine. Coach blows the whistle and Kris celebrates by throwing his stick and gloves in the air, a small, pleased smirk on his face.

Marc despises him.

Most of the coaches and older players get off the ice, but there’s a good number who stay on afterwards to work on personal skills. Murray always stays on after and that makes Marc a little sad, but he doesn’t comment.

After about fifteen minutes of creasework, Marc gets bored, because goalie skating is redundant and mundane and he’d rather watch paint dry than do the same x-patterned crease drill with different techniques for an extended period of time. He begs Kessel to go down on a couple breakaways and pretty soon, a line begins to form at center ice. Sid comes down and misses the net… again… and everybody taps their sticks. Sid looks like he might implode. Geno props the puck on his stick and attempts to hurl it sideways into the net and Fehr takes it seriously and comes down the ice as if he were in a real shootout, the last game of the season, and the Pens needed to clinch the Frozen Four spot. He goes fivehole and everyone howls and cheers. Marc grins. And then there’s Kris. Standing at the face off dot, puck at his stick, staring down the ice as though stalking prey. Kris starts out slowly, dangerously, taking long, languid strides, thoughtful with every movement, and picks up speed just above the hashmarks. It’s too late to get a good shot off, but Kris does so anyway, as if out of spite, that if Marc were to let in one this close with almost no angle at all, then he is surely the worst goalie on the ice, but Kris whiffs on the shot. Marc wants to laugh. He wants to lie down on the ice and let his soul float up to the heavens to thank God for this glorious opportunity. Marc sidesteps Kris to poke the puck away, but the defenseman reaches down into the front of his pants, pulling out another puck, dropping it on the ice, and going top shelf from two feet in. The guys cheer and Marc stares at him. Kris grins sweetly.

“Should’ve been patient, _Flower_ ,” Kris snips, emphasizing Duper’s nickname.

That’s when Marc shoves his glove into Kris’ cage.

“Shut up you stupid goddamn motherfucker,” Fleury is cussing all over the place, and Kris is fighting back. Both have dropped their gloves and are throwing actual punches.

“Not my fault you’re too dumb to read a breakaway!” Kris retorts between heavy breaths.

“You cheated,” Marc hisses as Duper rips him away and Geno grabs hold of Kris who lost his helmet at some point and stares with eyes filled with hellfire.

“I’m fine, “ Kris tells the bigger player holding him back, but Geno doesn’t let go. He drags a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath.

“ _What the fuck, Flower?”_ Duper says angrily as Marc exits the ice.

_“You can’t just fight people! This isn’t high school anymore!”_ Duper calls down the hallway.

Marc ignores him. He pushes through the locker room and tears his gear off. It’s hockey, they’re allowed to get in fistfights. He doesn’t see why anyone gives a damn. Kris enters a few minutes later. His lip is swollen and a little bloody and he pauses as he passes Marc’s stall. Marc doesn’t look up, just unlaces his skates with a little more effort than necessary. Kris scoffs, his favorite melodramatic noise Marc decides, before mumbling a sassy, “unbelievable,” and sauntering off to the bathroom to get a paper towel. Marc’s knuckles ache. They’re bruised and a little puffy and stiff, nothing too bad, but he slinks off to the trainer despite himself because Olli takes one look at them and says he should anyway.

Kris is already sitting on a table, holding an ice pack to the side of his face. As usual, he greets Marc with a dark glare of disapproval that says _go fuck a tree_ better than actual words ever could.

“Hey,” Marc says plainly, sitting further down on the table.

Coach Sullivan and Coach Martin sit in two chairs in the corner, watching them.

“We can’t have this,” Coach Sullivan states.

Marc flicks his gaze up from the trainer wrapping his knuckles in an ace bandage.

“Especially this early in the season. I don’t care who started what. You take responsibility for your actions or you get off the ice,” Sullivan continues. He’s a scary man when he’s angry. His eyes pierce through your soul like searchlight through thick fog. Marc forgets how much he despises Kris and feels ashamed for a little while.

Coach is silent for a moment, the type of purposeful silence that adults like to use so you can think about all the wrong you’ve ever done in your life and reflect on why you’re such a terrible person. Marc doesn’t want to meet his eyes, he really doesn’t, because he knows the moment he does, Coach will start speaking again and make him feel even worse and to blame. Kris must have broken first and looked up.

“I expected better from both of you. Two recruits at the top of their class fighting over a breakaway game. Unacceptable. Embarrassing.” Coach Sullivan stands to leave. Coach Martin follows a moment later after exchanging a few brief words with the trainer.

Kris storms out about a minute or so later, no doubt timing it so he doesn’t run into the two coaches in the hallway. Marc follows him out the back entrance. The sky is dark and it looks like rain. The air is warm, and still like the calm before a deluge.

“Wait. Kris, wait!” Marc jogs to catch up.

“Get away from me,” Kris retorts stubbornly, determined to stare straight ahead.

“Can’t we just work this out?” Marc finds himself saying and it almost sounds like a plea. He didn’t mean to say that. He meant to say something equally as aggressive, something like _this is your fault_ or _stop acting like a child_.

“Oh, so you want to play nice now? Huh? Forget it,” Kris’ tone is lethal, a mix of shocked, furious, and amused.

“Kris,” Marc says and now it does sound like a plea.

And Kris loses it, “Shut up, just shut the hell up! I’m done with you!”

A few raindrops trickle out from the sky, hitting the pavement.

Marc doesn’t know why he says it because he really doesn’t believe it, but he says it anyway as Marc is walking away, and he stands alone with an impending storm swirling around him, “ _I’m sorry_.”

It’s so insincere and fake and Marc doesn’t care that it doesn’t mean anything, but it sounds sort of genuine and that’s all that matters, right?

It seems to work for a short moment because Kris stops mid-step and whips around to stare at Marc with bewilderment. His eyes are alight with the excitement of lightening, but his mouth is still twisted into that deep scowl as before. Thunder rumbles in the distance and it’s as though Kris remembers where he is and whom he’s with. He gives Marc one last glance, face darkening once more, before turning back in the other direction and darting off to his dorm.

 

 

 

 

Extra:


	3. The Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slowly regretting that I started writing this fic in the first place lol what am I even doing

Despite Coach Sullivan’s heavy lecture, neither Marc nor Kris changes their behavior. They continue silently ignoring each other, doing everything they can as to avoid any possible interactions. For instance, during a chalk talk on Thursday, he chose to sit on the floor instead of next to Kris. Additionally, during team breakfasts in the dining hall, Kris finds it necessary to glare at him from behind his bowl of cereal every morning. In the hallway, they avoid eye contact, and on the ice, they attempt to avoid every possible confrontation. Duper and Sid have stopped trying to force them into the same vicinity to get them to get along, accepting the reciprocated animosity with reluctance.

After the first full week of practice, Horny throws a keg party on Friday night. Actually, technically Hagelin throws the keg party because he lives on the ground floor of the freshmen dorms with a sliding door to a nice little shared backyard, which Hornqvist gladly exploits. Unfortunately, Marc lives right across the hall from Hagelin, meaning he has no excuse not to attend the rager. Marc shares his room with two soccer players who don’t shut the bathroom door when they pee and stay up late most nights with girls in their room. Thankfully, that Friday, they’re nowhere to be found, and Marc doesn’t really care enough to seek them out to see when they’re coming back just in case he gives them any ideas.

Around nine, Marc showers, shaves, and dresses. The party started around eight, but the one thing he learned in high school was to always show up to the party late. It’s nine twenty-two and Marc is standing in front of the mirror, analyzing his clothing: a t-shirt and athletic shorts. It looks too casual. He changes into a button down but keeps the shorts laid back. Now he just looks like a half-assed slob. He trades the athletic shorts out for a pair of nice shorts, those dumb khaki shorts that everyone owns and is sort of okay with himself as he makes his way across the hall to where the loud music pulses through the wall and voices chant and fluctuate.

The lights are low and there aren’t as many bodies crammed in the small dorm room as Marc thought there would be, which is a nice surprise. Sid greets Marc warmly as he passes through the kitchen. He’s clearly completely sober… and is wearing the same shorts as Marc.

“Hey! Flower! Glad you could come! Beers are in the kitchen, hotdogs and hamburgers out back!” Sid shouts over the music.

Marc nods good-humoredly. A blonde in a strapless dress presses a red solo cup into his hand and pulls him into the sitting room where the furniture was shoved aside to make a dance floor. Sid waves as Marc is dragged into the mess of bodies. The blonde, who’s name, he finds out, is Sophia, is actually a pretty good dancer, despite the clear fact that she’s smashed, and gladly grinds back on Marc, who doesn’t complain at the attention. Around him, Geno maintains the focus of two brunettes and Beau is practically making out with another. The “dance floor” is unbearably hot and after two songs, Marc has to dig his way out to escape to the backyard, passing Kris making out with a gorgeous girl in a skin-tight mini dress in the kitchen. He gladly ignores them even as Kris reaches up her skirt, eliciting a loud, filthy moan from the girl.

Marc joins Phil’s team in beer pong against Fehrsy and Kuni, realizing that he’s actually very shit at the game only when it’s half over and he’s had more drinks than he can count. Only when Marc is delightfully inebriated does the party actually feel like it’s started. The music is louder, the lights are dimmer, and the girls are hotter. He makes his way to the dancefloor again, this time with Hagelin, who eventually stopped sulking about the fact that his dorm room was taken over by savages and decided to try his hand at indulging in college life. “The Weeknd” is blaring through the speakers when Marc sees him, taking a swig of a bottle of cheap beer that Horny brought, leaning against the wall. His gaze is focused through the dimly lit room and the heat of every single body rutting and gyrating in the space is palpable in that very moment. Time seems to slow to a painful crawl. He’s wearing a white v-neck that frames his torso and another pair of those dumb club shorts; this pair is a muted salmon color. Pale gray vans that match the carpet adorn his feet and he’s got a pair of Ray-Bans tucked into the front of his shirt even though it’s nighttime and they’re inside. Kris runs a hand through his hair. Marc’s eyes, alert of almost every shift and movement in the room, follow Kris’ fingers carding through his dark locks. Kris takes another sip. The speakers vibrate with the thrum of the music. The blonde girl from earlier is gone.

_I only fuck you when it’s half past five_

_The only time I’d ever call you mine_

The words of the song swirl in Marc’s head and adrenaline drums in his veins. Kris knocks back the last of his beer and tosses the bottle off to the side carelessly before breaking the eye contact and moving to leave. Marc pushes through the other bodies all vibrating and swaying to the beat before breaking through the mob like a wave on the surface of the shore. He tails Kris out into the hall. The music sounds far away and the air is cool. No one else is around.

“Where’re you going?” Marc manages. He feels nauseous almost.

“Back,” Kris says. He means back to his dorm. On the other side of campus.

“Oh yeah, me too,” Marc states lamely. He points to the door behind Kris.

Kris doesn’t deign to look, doesn’t even blink.

Marc isn’t even that drunk, but he sort of sways a little as he unlocks his door. Kris follows him inside even though Marc doesn’t remember saying he could. But, it’s fine. The less they speak, the less Marc feels the need to defend himself against Kris’ ridiculous temper. Marc shuffles to the kitchen to grab another beer from the fridge. The only good thing about his asshole roommates is their fake IDs. Kris is leaning in the doorjamb. His shoes are off and he’s wearing these socks that are all bunched up at the toes because of all the extra sagging material. It looks so uncomfortable, Marc wishes he’d just pull his Goddamn socks up.

Marc is three sips into his own beer before he remembers to offer a drink to Kris, because he’s a good host and he’s gonna offer his guests a drink even if his guest happens to be a total dick, “Want any?”

“Yeah,” Kris pads over and snags the can from Marc’s hand, taking a long gulp before putting it back into Marc’s grasp. Marc doesn’t say anything. Part of him expected he’d do some stupid shit like drink from his beer. Typical.

Kris’ eyes are dark and hazy as they examine Marc’s face. He’s standing so close Marc can smell his cologne. Underneath the white v-neck, his chest rises and falls evenly.

“Want any more?” Marc means it sarcastically as he shakes the can; the liquid inside sloshes around.

“Yeah,” Kris’ voice sounds preoccupied, distant almost, as he moves forward suddenly, connecting their lips for a slow, filthy kiss, tugging Marc’s bottom lip between his teeth. Marc’s head feels light, thoughts going every which way, but Kris’ chest is so warm against his, breath hot as he bites kisses across his jaw, that Marc can’t help but put the beer on the counter to free his hands and thread his fingers through Kris’ hair, tugging lightly every so often to hear how Kris groans. He meets Kris’ open mouth kisses, tilting his head to keep up with Kris’ movements. It’s fast and messy and Marc has never wanted anyone so much in his life.

Their legs are an awkward tangled mess on the slippery linoleum, taking wobbly bambi steps backwards as Marc lets Kris take control. And then Kris’ is shoving him up against the fridge with as much force to send it shaking into the wall, deepening the kiss, hands running down his back to cling to the hem of his button down at the small of his back. Their chests rise and fall unevenly, flushed against the other, a mix of tongue and teeth and skin as their mouths meet again. His skin is on fire where Kris’ fingers grip his hips through his khaki shorts like he wants to bring Marc as close as he can, like he can’t get enough contact, burning holes in the fabric, gluing Marc to his touch.

And Marc feels everything. Every moan, every breath, every touch is magnified by the alcohol and his blood pulsing in his ears.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Marc hisses out, and it sounds so coarse, so absolutely wrecked.

He manages to wriggle a hand between them to palm Kris’ dick through his shorts, stroking his erection slowly; Kris responds by rolling his groin against Marc’s urgently to get more friction. Breaking the kiss and dropping his forehead to rest on Marc’s shoulder, Kris moves one hand to grab Marc’s ass through his shorts, the other he plants on the fridge next to his head to stabilize himself as his thrusts grow more desperate.

Even plastered, Marc knows this isn’t how he wants to get off, grinding against Kris through their clothes in the middle of his shitty dorm room kitchen. He shoves Kris off reluctantly.

Their heavy breathing fills the small space. From across the hall, cheering can be heard.

“Bed,” Marc’s mouth stumbles over the word, lustily. The air in his lungs feels thin, like there isn’t enough oxygen in the world to fill them completely.

Kris smirks out of the corner of his mouth, brandishing his teeth enticingly, and well fuck if that isn’t the hottest thing Marc has seen in months.

Marc doesn’t remember when they ended up actually going to Marc’s bedroom, but they’re out of their shorts and boxers immediately, clothing in a heap on the floor somewhere, a problem for future Marc and future Kris to deal with because Kris is leaning over Marc, driving his hips forward, dicks sliding together, sucking a bruise against Marc’s collarbone. It’s graceless and disorganized and their foreheads keep knocking together, but every part of him wants this. Even so, the both of them don’t bother to take their shirts off, because somehow that makes it less real, less like they’re actually naked on a bed together and getting off.

The shit little twin-sized bed knocks against the wall heavily with every thrust. A little part of him hopes it leaves a dent in the wall so some part of this moment will stay with him until the next day. Marc’s voice is caught in his throat. He wants to moan and cuss and yell at Kris for making this feel so good, but he’s just left clutching the sheets and arching his back, praying Kris doesn’t stop. Kris’ motions become more sporadic and needy, his moans are more frequent and vocal, like all of the sudden he couldn’t hold it back in his throat any longer.

Reaching a hand between their sweaty, damp bodies, Kris jacks their dicks together, eyes squeezed shut, head tossed back, coming with a released sigh. Watching Kris bite his lip to hold back a string of French cusses and his hair clinging to his skin with perspiration, undone in the best way possible, has Marc stuttering through his own orgasm.

And then it’s silent.

It’s not the usual silence that rests between the two of them. It’s a silence filled with “Oh, fuck what have I done” and deep, forceful regret over drunken decisions. Kris stares blankly off to the side as if he knows what Marc’s feeling in his gut now too. Even through the dark room Marc can see his lips are shiny and kiss-swollen, hair tousled a bit like someone from a shampoo commercial; eyes filled with the usual concealed darkness. He traces a hand through his hair as he stands, wordlessly. The muscles in his back clench and relax. He doesn’t turn around or look back at Marc. The world feels so still. Marc is still in a distant haze of sorts, like his head is underwater, as he watches Kris get dressed clumsily, tripping as he sticks his legs in the wrong holes of both his boxers and his shorts.

Marc knows what they did doesn’t mean anything. It was all emotions and alcohol; nobody has to know about it, not even sober Kris and sober Marc have to know. They could just drink it out of their systems until Marc can’t remember the feeling of Kris’ body pressed up against his and Kris doesn’t know what it’s like to have Marc’s fingers in his hair and his tongue in his mouth.

But even then, for a very brief moment, Marc thinks that Kris might stay. He checks his phone like he’s casually checking the time and might be coming back to bed. Until he stands fully upright and shuffles forward to the doorway before turning around abruptly to look at Marc.

“Nothing’s changed,” Kris says suddenly, running a hand through his hair like again like it’s a nervous tick. Marc sort of nods, but doesn’t want to say anything.

He doesn’t watch the other man leave, but after a while, he lies back and stares at the ceiling. For all that the sex was, it wasn’t worth the anger and frustration overcomes him as the night’s events sink into his conscience and nag at him for letting himself get wrapped up even more in Kris’ bullshit. A dehydration headache knocks him sideways soon after, and just before he drifts into a restless sleep, he wishes that they could just start over and maybe they’d be better off that way.

 

 

Extra: 

I sort of made one of those "aesthetic" bundle pictures for the first three-ish chapters


	4. Afterwards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo more awkward feelings!

Classes start on Monday and despite the unprecedented amount of times they run into each other, Marc and Kris choose to deal with the situation like mature adults: by ignoring the issue altogether and pretending it doesn’t exist. Monday is also the day that Marc discovers that Kris, by astonishing luck, is in the same Macroeconomics class as him. After making eye contact for a solid six seconds, Kris opts to sit in the second row of the lecture hall; Marc sits nineteen rows back. They don’t talk about it. And if Marc spends most of the class watching Kris play snake on his computer instead of listening to the professor, then, well, nobody has to know.

***

On Wednesday, Marc finds himself in the balcony of the library sifting through the dustiest, crumbliest Calc book he could find when Kris saunters in, oblivious to Marc’s presence above. He flops down on the floor and snaps open his laptop, not that Marc is watching Kris or anything, curled up on the floor, probably writing the Macro paper that’s due that night at midnight. The same Macro paper that Marc finished last night because he’s a responsible student. The same Macro paper that Kris is now blatantly avoiding, head lolling off to the side, arms crossed, zoning out.

A little part of Marc wants to help him, wants to drop down beside him and look at his thesis or proofread his body paragraphs or something, wants to show Kris the main points of argument in case he forgot. It’s stupid really, but the feeling is itching under his skin. Kris probably just has writer’s block; it happens to everybody. It’s really none of Marc’s business. Kris is looking everywhere but at the open laptop in his lap.

Apprehensively, Marc picks up his phone, opening up a new message to Kris.

**u in the library?**

His finger hovers over the “send” button for a good half-minute before he can gather up the courage to press it. What if Kris doesn’t respond? Does that make Marc look desperate? It’s just a friendly gesture is all. Teammates are supposed to help each other out. It’s not like Marc is bringing up that night at the party, he’s just asking if Kris is in the library, what could be taken wrong from that?

Peeking from behind the wood of the balcony, he watches as Kris’ phone dings quietly and the screen lights up with the text. As always, Kris removes his hat, pulling a hand through his dark hair, and tugging it back on again. He leans forward to pick up his phone off the keyboard of the laptop, pausing momentarily to scan the screen before placing the phone, hesitantly, face down on the keyboard once more. Marc doesn’t even realize that he’s gripping the bannister, knuckles white, breath stuck in his chest. Kris looks around the library, then at the watch on his wrist, staring at it for a bit before picking up the phone once more and swiping the text to open it. Marc observes in real time as the three little dots on his own phone show Kris texting back. His stomach flips, excitement rushing under his skin, fluid with the idea that Kris might want his help or company. Not that Marc actually cares that much. He likes helping people, nothing else. He couldn’t care less if he was helping Kris or somebody else, really.

**no**

The little word smirks at him from the screen. His body sinks a little despite himself. He doesn’t care. Why would he care? He should’ve know Kris would do this because he has some kind of stigma against Marc for some stupid reason that he still can’t understand. Fuck Kris. He doesn’t deserve his help. Marc locks his phone and slides it back into his pocket, setting his frame of vision on Kris messing with his laptop. He’s probably not even writing anything. He’s probably playing snake again.

It takes an immense amount of willpower not to take his phone out and type “don’t lie to me you asshole, I see you from the balcony ‘writing’ your paper and I wanted to help but fuck you I’m not helping you with anything go fuck yourself.” After about five minutes of sitting in a pool of his own seething anger, tapping his finger anxiously on the table so loudly that a few people shoot him glares, Marc gathers his books into his backpack, steals away to the back staircase, and exits through the side door.

***

Thursday is the annual “Pens for Kids” fundraiser where all the young local kids come and skate around on the rink and get their faces painted and color pictures of penguins and cartoon hockey players. It’s almost adorable. Except that Marc isn’t exactly Nanny McPhee when it comes to children.

Marc is in the bathroom, scrubbing out cupcake frosting that a little boy engrained into the pant leg of his favorite jeans when he collided full on with Marc’s thigh (there’s a reason why we don’t run around with food). Marc’s mom bought the jeans at GAP last October and since then, he hasn’t washed them once because he’s responsible enough not to get shit on them. You’re not supposed to wash jeans much, right? You’re supposed to wear them a bunch until you absolutely have to wash them. It has something to do with the material.

The paper towel gets all grainy and starts to fall apart with each rub, so Marc balls up the sopping wet lump of cheap towel and tosses it in the sink to deal with later because there’s no trashcan in the single-stalled bathroom at the rink. He glances at the reflection of the dark brown blotch in the mirror, obscure and prominent.

The only reasonable option left, in Marc’s panicking mind, is to just take them off and handwash them in the sink. With deft speed, he kicks his shoes off; they hit the floor loudly and gracelessly in a mangled whirl as he struggles to undo the button at his crotch at the same time.

Somebody knocks at the door.

“Just a minute!” Marc calls, turning on the faucet to sound like he’s actually doing something normal. Except the faucet in the single-stalled bathroom at the rink is on steroids and fills up the sink faster than Marc can get his pants undone because the damn zipper is stuck on something and he can’t get them past his hips and the wad of disintegrating paper towels is clogging up the drain.

“Flower? Is that you?” a voice calls out. It’s Kuni.

“No! I mean yeah. One sec!” Marc calls, the sink is overflowing by now and Marc hurries to grab the piece of coloring paper, partially filled in by a little red-haired girl who had given it to Marc to “keep safe” while she went ice skating, and is now getting soaked by the runoff. It was a shit coloring job anyway but Marc had pinky-promised that he wouldn’t let it get messed up or anything. He practically rips the handles off the faucet as he goes to shut the pressure off. Holding the dry end of the paper in his mouth, he jimmies the zipper down and shimmies his jeans off.

“You good in there?” Marc hears Kuni’s voice above the sound of his heart beating in his ears, plunging his hand into the sink to snag what’s left of the slimy paper towel ball and tossing it on the counter with a disgusting splat. Great, his shirtsleeves are drenched.

“Yep!” Marc hears himself say, muffled by the paper between his lips.

His hands shake as he dips the stain into the water, rubbing it between his thumbs and forefingers to try and force it out. _Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck this isn’t working fuck me fuck I’m so stupid._ Marc’s mind races and pretty soon he gives up, slipping on his pants, grabbing the little ball of wet paper towels, and unlocking the door. He doesn’t even attempt to clean up the water all over the counter.

Kunitz grins, “The hell happened to you?”

“I’m so bad with kids,” Marc lets out an exhausted breath as he passes, skipping up the steps to the upper concourse where Beau mans the coloring station. He’s doing his best to give the kids the colors they ask for, but he’s clearly buckling under pressure. Marc hands the wad of wet towel to Beau and slaps the water-damaged art down on the table.

“Ew what the fuck is—,” Beau starts.

“ _Language_. There are _children_ present,” Marc replies. Beau slinks off to throw the wet ball of paper away.

In the corner, Sid and Geno paint faces, which is laughable in itself, picturing a 6’3” 190 pound Evengi Malkin holding a dainty paintbrush in his massive fists. One table over, Kris is stationed at the tattoo table because somebody had the intelligent idea to put Kris on temporary tattoo duty. A gray toque replaces Kris’ regular penguins hat today and it’s annoying how good it looks. A large crowd of about seven small, extremely _loud_ children has gathered around Kris’ table. Kris is pressing a warm, wet cloth to a little boy’s hand, nodding and listening intently to the boy as he rambles.

“You don’t know _everybody_ in the whole world,” the boy says stubbornly. He’s sitting in a little plastic chair. So is Kris.

“Yes I _do_ ,” Kris replies sincerely, making better eye contact with the child than he’s made with Marc in the past three weeks. He lifts the towel ever so slightly to check on the state of the tat before pressing it back down.

At this time, one of the kids at the coloring table decides to throw a temper tantrum because she wanted to color a penguin skater, not a penguin goalie, and shoves off a big stack of the coloring pages. Marc stares at them blankly as they flutter to the floor.

“If you know _everybody_ , then who’s _that_?” A pale-ish, freckly girl with her face painted like a fairy points to Marc as he gathers the drawing templates off the ground reluctantly. Surprisingly, her face paint is decipherable and Marc makes a mental note to congratulate the seniors on their artistic abilities at a later time.

“That’s Marc. He’s a goalie,” Kris says, eyes moving from the freckle girl to rest on Marc, face growing serious as he does so. Marc sort of wishes Kris would smile. His stomach churns at the familiarity of his voice, but his brain knows to think otherwise. Tension manifests itself between the two. Marc pauses for a moment to stare back before sweeping the stray papers into a pile. He watches Kris’ hands, holding the towel to the little kid’s skin, strong and secure, trying to ignore how they felt against his skin, holding his hips. He’s annoyed that his body remembers the sensation and reacts to the thoughts inside his head. He forces his gaze back to the ground again—he can’t look Kris in the eye.

“Is he _good_?” the nosy boy getting the tattoo asks, naturally.

Kris smiles a bit out of the corner of his mouth, not that Marc looked up or anything, “No, he’s awful. Coach never lets him play.”

Marc freezes. He grabs the pile on the floor and stands. He’s not angry or anything. Who cares what Kris thinks. That might not even be his real opinion, right? He’s just saying that to impress the children.

The kids think it’s the most hilarious thing they’ve ever heard, jumping up and down and laughing louder than necessary. A little smile makes it onto Kris’ face again before disappearing.

“Can you give me a lizard on my cheek, please?” One of the girls has made her way over to the coloring station where Marc is dropping the stack of papers onto the table and latches onto Marc’s arm and attempts to drag him down through the tenth layer of hell. She draws out the “please,” giving a cheesy little smile and squeezing her eyes shut as she wrenches Marc’s arm around. The papers threaten to tumble off the table again. He eyes them warily as if threatening them if they decided to take a dive.

“Oh, um, no, I’m in charge of coloring, but Kris—,” Marc attempts, face growing hot. The girl’s grip is strong as she yanks Marc over to the tattoo table. Marc glances dubiously back at Beau who waves weakly.

“C’mon, _Flower_ , stay awhile,” Kris brandishes a toothy grin, like the one from the other night, pulling another tacky plastic chair out from under the table for Marc. Duper’s nickname is abused once more. Marc can feel his hands getting sweaty. He slips them out of the death grip of the girl and into his pockets immediately. Kris watching the movement has Marc going red in the cheeks again.

“I really can’t I need to—,” Marc takes a few steps back.

“I thought you said his name was _Marc_ ,” one of the wiseass kids in line practically shrieks.

“We call him Flower when he misbehaves,” Kris pulls the hand towel back and reveals a racecar imprinted on the little boy’s hand. He seems quite content with his tattoo abilities. _Misbehaves_. Something in Marc’s stomach tightens and releases. His brain is cloudy. This isn’t fair.

“ _Flower_! That’s so _stupid_!” The kids lose their shit, giggling and chanting like a cult. Brats. All of them.

“Nice wet mark,” Kris comments as the lizard girl drops down into the plastic chair excitedly, demanding not only a lizard on her cheek, but a unicorn and a fox too. Marc looks down at his jeans. The stain seems to wink at him.

“Flower wet his pants!” a boy wearing light up shoes sings out and of course, everyone finds that hysterical.

“Flower wet his _plants_!” A different kid chimes in, which is an even bigger hit with the crowd.

Beau calls Marc back to the table because some of the kids are eating the crayons and oh God Flower what if their parents find out we let them eat burnt sienna??? Marc leaves all too willingly, not looking back at Kris as he jogs away.

The afternoon flies by in a whirlwind of attempting to block out incessant whining and staring into space wondering if he can just bail and hide out in the lounge. The red-haired girl never does come back for her wet drawing and by three, most of the families have gone home except for the main benefactors and their little spoiled children.

When Kris shows up at the drawing table, Beau is nowhere in sight to distract him. Marc is sitting there patiently, handing whatever colored crayon the only kid at the table, a rotten girl of about four, demands. Kris doesn’t sit down. He just stands and watches. Marc senses his presence, can pinpoint where Kris’ broad frame plants itself like a dark looming, shadow in the corner of his vision without looking directly at him.

For someone who openly displays his dislike towards Marc, Kris sure spends a lot of time around him. Under the table, Marc clenches and unclenches his hands. He doesn’t care that Kris came over. He’s probably just bored. But, a hopeful little corner of Marc’s brain pokes at the idea that Kris came to _Marc’s_ table and not anybody else’s.

“Black,” the small child demands, sticking her hand out, not looking up from her terrible artwork.

Marc obliges.

She scribbles on the page like a maniac, gripping the crayon with great force.

“Red,” She says.

“Why do you need red? It’s a penguin,” Marc replies, exhausted.

“Because I _want_ it,” is her response.

Marc hands her the red.

Kris watches blankly. One of his hands moves to pick up the drawing that the little red-haired girl left. It’s of a penguin goalie making a glove save. She colored the goalie pads a repulsive mustard yellow and the penguin itself a sky blue, which is entirely unrealistic.

“What?” Marc brings a tired gaze to rest on Kris.

“So… about Friday…” Kris starts, nonchalantly, he flicks his eyes up from the coloring page.

“We’re talking about this now?” Marc prompts, looking to the occupied child across the table.

“She doesn’t care,” Kris replies.

“Green,” the child requests.

Marc hands it over.

“Not that one,” she retorts, throwing it back.

Marc rolls his eyes, giving her the other green all the way at the end of the table. She takes it without even looking at what color it is, connecting it with the paper savagely.

“What we did was a one time thing, okay?” Kris says, voice solid, determined. It sounds pent up like he’s been meaning to say it all week. In his voice, Marc can hear all the times that Kris meant to pull him aside after practice or before off-ice but just couldn’t find the nerves to do it. A silent static builds up in Marc’s ears as a way of blocking out any other noise, but Kris doesn’t follow up with anything else immediately.

Marc begins to swipe the crayons into a big pile in the middle absently, “okay.” He doesn’t look up.

“I mean it didn’t mean anything. I was drunk and you were—,” Kris goes off hurriedly. He’s still holding that stupid goddamn coloring page.

“I get it,” Marc cuts off, snatching the coloring page out of his hands, stalking off to the trash bin. Kris follows.

“All we did was—,” Kris is saying, fiddling with his phone in his hand, clicking the lock screen on and off. He sounds like he’s trying to deflect that anything happened at all, but Marc knows what happened, he wasn’t too drunk that he could forget the way it felt.

 _“I know what we did,”_ Marc is done with the conversation, balling up the paper in his hands.

Kris stills Marc’s shaking hands before he can shove the coloring page in the ineffectively small trash slot. They’re not really shaking, Marc notes, just vibrating with the anger underneath his skin, but Kris probably can’t spot the damn difference. Kris gingerly uncrumples the paper and gently folds it with soft creases, sliding it into his pocket wordlessly. Marc watches, almost stunned, too irritated to speak.

It’s awkward.

“What’s that from?” Kris says, and it’s almost accusatory. He’s looking at the wet mark on Marc’s outer thigh.

“Nothing,” Marc retorts stiffly.

But, Kris reaches a hand out to touch it experimentally, as if he doesn’t believe the stain is real. His fingers press against the fabric and Marc can feel the heat and weight of the gesture through the denim. It’s magnetic. And it’s weird. It’s weird because if anyone were looking on, they wouldn’t think that they hated each other, they’d think something else completely.

And it’s not _fair_. Kris didn’t have to bring this up; he didn’t have to do this, didn’t have to remind Marc of what they did and how it felt and that they can never do it again even though Marc really fucking enjoyed it and... and now Kris is touching his leg and he’s not supposed to do that, he’s so fucked. He’s supposed to be angry with Marc again and defensive and push Marc away and ignore him and this is way too much. The little part of Marc’s brain devoted to hope is doing backflips. Marc pushes past Kris, knocking shoulders as he goes, making his way back to his table to clean up.

His systems are on fire.

And it’s not like Marc can tell anyone else about it to try and vent and get it out of his system. He can’t bring it up to Duper on a whim as they pass in the hallway one day like, “Hey, man! Do you know when we get our game uniforms? Oh and by the way, I grabbed Kris’ dick and put my tongue in his mouth. No, yeah, we still hate each other I think, I don’t really know anymore, but we were drunk so it doesn’t count.” That must cross some kind of line, Marc thinks. You’re not supposed to do that stuff with your teammates… Especially the ones you just met and go out of their way to make you feel like a worthless piece of shit.

Frustration builds in Marc’s chest with the pressure of reckless decisions and confusion bending him so far he could snap. _“A one time thing,”_ that’s what Kris had said. And as Marc is putting the crayons back into their boxes, it’s exactly that which numbs him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Extra:


	5. Preseason Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, we find out why Kris hates Marc yay! Also more drinking...

It’s a Friday night, the first preseason game against Detroit U, and Marc doesn’t remember the last time he was this excited to play hockey (maybe the national prep school championships last spring, but that was _high school_ ). Every cell in his body seems to be electrically charged and he’s not even playing tonight. Vokoun gets the first game, Marc gets the second, then Vokoun, then Marc, and so on until the regular season—that’s what Coach Sullivan said, anyway, and his word is practically law.

Marc laces his pads to his skates. Guys linger about the room taping sticks and making light conversation. Black, gold, and white jerseys hang in the stalls in perfect order. A remixed pop song plays in the background, the beat loud, practically shaking the walls, but nobody complains; adrenaline pumps faster with the music. Vokoun is in the stall over relacing his skates. Murray sits in silence in the stall to the left, focusing. Marc still feels sort of bad for the kid.

Across the room is Tanger. He stands half-facing Marc but not looking at him, engaging in conversation with Kessel, making a lot of hand gestures and animated faces as he tells a story. He’s not wearing any shoes, Marc notices, standing in just his socks and clad in Penguins attire with a backwards hat. Marc tries to ignore him just like he tries to ignore that Kris is first line defense with Dumoulin and Marc isn’t even playing tonight, not that that matters, Vokoun _is_ the veteran starter anyway… Kris isn’t _terrible_. He’s solid on the blueline and efficient in the d-zone, annoyingly enough. He gets the job done with no fuss or drama. Marc hates to admit it but he feels safer when Kris is on the ice.

Their little “chat” a few weeks back seemed to help Kris a considerable amount. He’s back to his familiar routine of ignoring Marc and engaging him in as little conversation as possible. It’s the best-case scenario, Marc decides. Except Marc can’t stop _thinking_ about him. His head is all skittish and jittery around Kris. When he enters the locker room or weight room where he knows Kris is sure to be, his eyes are like a heat missile, searching immediately for the one person who’s never searching for him. He’s not sure what’s going on in Macro anymore because at some point during the lectures, he stopped paying attention to the professor and started locking his gaze on Kris and whatever he’s doing that class, which never is paying attention to the lesson either. It’s bad religion.

It takes more effort than Marc wants to give to pull his eyes off of Kris and return them to his skates.

 

***

 

During warmups, Marc can hardly take in everything—the sounds, the cool rush of air against his skin, the ice beneath his skates, the familiar stretch of his muscles as he moves—it’s so real and so raw. He loves it. The charged feeling returns to the pit of his stomach and stays awhile. Oh, this is so much better than high school. The lights are brighter and the fans are louder (not to mention there are more of them) and the rink seems to come to life with the breath of a thousand bodies all vibrating and humming with anticipation and Marc is one of them. And then Kris misses the net and almost pegs Flower in the head. Marc is stretching off to the side, _a good distance off to the side_ , and Kris deadass misses the net by ten feet to the right. It was _definitely_ on purpose. No doubt. Maybe Kris wanted Marc’s attention. But why would he want Marc’s attention? He never knows what’s actually going on inside Kris’ head and he doesn’t exactly stick around long enough for Marc to attempt to find out.

Kris rounds behind the net to get back in line and Marc hooks his stick around Kris’ ankle, “What was that for?” Marc calls above the music.

Kris rolls his eyes through his cage and shrugs, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

_Ah, so we’re “enemies” again? Good to know._

“You almost nailed me in the face,” Marc replies, annoyed.

Kris huffs and pauses for a moment, turning his gaze to the heavens and shaking his head, “I wasn’t aiming at _you_ , I was aiming at _her_ ,” he points with his glove at a blonde girl against the glass, beaming. She’s got a nice, white smile and pretty blue eyes and a cute little nose and when she waves, Kris waves back.

“Who’s that?” Marc demands before he realizes how harsh his tone is.

“ _That_ is my girlfriend,” Kris retorts. He spits and takes off around the circle, cutting to the hashmarks and ripping one low blocker on Vokoun. Marc sits stock still as if he had just been punched in the throat. Kris goes to the line on the other side. And suddenly, the place feels louder than before, yet smaller, as if it’s slowly closing in on Marc, suffocating him and trapping him simultaneously. His brain short-circuits and he’s left mid-stretch staring at the near faceoff dot.

 _Girlfriend? Kris has a girlfriend?_ Marc was so stupid, he thought… nevermind what he thought. He glances back over at the girl. She’s bouncing up and down, chewing gum with her back molars obnoxiously flirtatious the way girls do, smiling so big it intimidates Marc. Her eyes are locked on every movement Kris makes. Every now and then she turns to her friends and makes a small, witty remark and they all erupt into laughter. Marc wants to disintegrate into the ice. She’s _adorable_. It’s not like Marc can compete… no, wait, fuck, why would Marc want to compete? Marc doesn’t _care_ , Marc doesn’t even _like_ Kris, Kris is such an asshole. He doesn’t feel threatened by this girl, he _pities_ her and the fact that she has to hang around Kris all the time and gets to make out with Kris—no, that she _has_ to make out with Kris, and do all the boring boyfriend/girlfriend stuff with him like hold his hand and have coffee dates or whatever the fuck couples do.

Geno taps Marc’s pad playfully, “You OK?”

Marc nods, “It’s just… a lot to take in…” he gives a small smile, but he feels like he might throw up.

Geno grins so big it’s almost reassuring, “Pretty great, no?” he looks out across the vast ice before them and the stands almost completely full, even for a preseason game.

Marc forces a laugh and nods weakly, “yeah.”

 

***

 

During the game, Marc can’t get a grip. He doesn’t know what’s wrong. It must be the fact that he didn’t get to start tonight’s game is finally catching up with him. That’s gotta be it. In high school, Marc got pretty much all the games, so he’s just adjusting to riding the bench for the first time in a while. But, when Kris scored the game-tying-goal in the second period off of a slapshot from the point, he jumped into the glass where his girlfriend was sitting with her little friends and they smiled so big and took out their phones and took like 10,000 pictures. Marc even thought he saw her blow a kiss and Kris smiled that dumb toothy smile that’s never been directed at Marc before and he just had to sit there and watch it all happen and pretend like he didn’t give a shit. Because he totally doesn’t care if Kris’ girlfriend probably made that picture her lockscreen and in her phone Kris’ contact is something cheesy and dumb with a thousand heart emojis next to it like “Bae Kris <333” and his contact pic is a bad selfie they took when they first met. Or something stupid like that. Marc doesn’t know and Marc doesn’t care. Whatever.

It’s not jealousy, it’s not. Kris can date whomever he wants, it doesn’t affect Marc in the slightest. Like Kris said, it didn’t _mean_ anything, what they did…

Then why can’t Marc stop thinking about Kris? Why does he sometimes think about him before bed, rolling his hips against Marc’s, their mouths hot and wet and full of lust? Why does he want to pull Kris close and never let go and kiss him again even though it didn’t mean anything and they were both drunk and oh, God Kris hates him Marc can’t do this to himself. He doesn’t have a crush on Kris, that would be ridiculous. He just wants Kris be happy because deep down inside, Kris is probably, most likely (hopefully) a good guy. And hooking up seemed to make Kris sort of happy because who doesn’t like sex? If it was good for Marc, which it was pretty good, then it might have been good for Kris… unless it wasn’t and Kris hated it and he’s annoyed by Marc’s presence because he was just so bad and he had high expectations? Which he probably didn’t, because Kris hates him. Still. Even more so. It’s not that Marc wants Kris to _like_ him, he’s not _gay_ ; he just wants to be friends with Kris. Friends. That’s it. They were drunk, they didn’t know what they were doing, so that can’t be that gay, even if they did, like, make out and stuff. Right? And Kris has a girlfriend and Marc knows he’s not gay, so it was just two straight guys messing around is all. Putting labels on it would be even _gayer_ , in Marc’s mind.

Kris taps his stick against the boards for a line change. Lovejoy hops the bench. Marc feels dizzy. He’s sitting in his own little chair stationed at the end of the d-bench. Kris is right next to him, so close, examining the tape on his stick. There’s a little rip in the dead middle of the blade.

“You need some tape… to fix it, I mean?” Marc stutters out. His voice sounds scratchy and weird.

Kris looks over as if he hadn’t expected Marc to open his mouth, “That’s what the trainers are for,” he says deliberately before turning to one of the trainers to ask for tape.

Marc stares blankly at the door, stunned. Why did he say that? He shouldn't have said anything. But he was just trying to help... Kris shouldn't be such a dick all the time, he's always being such a dick to Marc and all Marc ever wants to do is help and Kris just turns around and goes and gets a girlfriend and doesn't even  _tell_ Marc, not that they're on that level where Kris just tells Marc stuff, but it still hurts in a way that Marc can't even describe. He doesn't want to think about it for too long because it makes his chest ache and he doesn't know why. 

Maybe deep down hidden somewhere there’s a sliver of Marc that wants to Kris to like him and talk to him and laugh with him like he does with everybody else. But it’s so far down in Marc’s subconscious and concealed by his own embarrassment and a confused mess of feelings that he doesn’t dare acknowledge it or stoke the flames lest it ends in disappointment and even more confusing feelings.

The final horn sounds at the end of the third, Pens win 4-3. Marc steps on the ice for the fan salute, clapping his gloves together with lackluster. For some reason, Marc’s mood has plummeted. He’s happy they won and even happier that he’ll get to play in the next game, but his head feels foggy and disgruntled and the idea of going out to celebrate with the team after this appeals to him so little.

He’s suddenly so drained and tired; he just wants to go back to his room and sleep until he’s himself again.

In the locker room, Marc pulls his gear off like an old, rickety machine, fingers wooden and clumsy. He trains his eyes on the logo in the middle of the floor so they won’t wander anywhere else.

 _I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. So what if Kris has a girlfriend? It’s not that hard. I can get a girlfriend too. But I don’t want a girlfriend. If I get a girlfriend then…_ Marc doesn’t breach any further. He’s wobbling on the edge of a line that he won’t risk crossing. He stays safely away from the idea or else it might consume him and ruin him because _Kris_ doesn’t care. Kris will destroy him.

"Flower, hey man, you alright?” Rusty waves a hand in front of his face, looking a little concerned underneath his smile.

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine,” Marc plasters a grin on his face as he glances up from half-heartedly tying his dress shoes.

“We’re all going out to the bars, wanna come?” Rusty replies, taking a cool swig from his water bottle.

“Of course!” Marc finds himself saying, despite the fact that he really wants to fucking die.

He grabs his suit coat and his dorm keys and follows the rest of the guys out of the side door and into the crisp, early fall air, ignoring his conscience nagging him that this is a terrible idea.

 

***

 

The bar the team ends up at isn’t the usual one stationed in the middle of campus because they always card students on the weekends and there are more than a handful of underage guys on the team. The bar the team ends up at is at the edge of campus and every drink is at least twenty-five cents cheaper than the other campus bars and the dance floor is sweaty and grimy and the air feels _wet_. Marc stations himself at the bar counter, tapping against the wood, ordering a round of shots. For himself. Because most of the guys are on the dancefloor, arms around girls, bouncing uncoordinatedly to the music drilling holes in Marc’s ears. Everyone is drinking. Even Sid has a beer, whether he’s actually drinking it is another story.

Marc drowns his thoughts in the little glasses that the bartender slides to him, but the more he pours down his throat, the louder the ideas in his head get. _It’s not going to happen again. It was a one-time thing. Get over him. He doesn’t like you._ Marc makes out with a girl with sandy brown hair and really bad highlights when he’s on the verge of drunk but still partly sober because Kris shows up with his girlfriend, dress shirt unbuttoned, abs out, looking like a stupid goddamn fashion model with his hair all mussed up, and Marc doesn’t know what else to do. He pulls the girl that’s been dropping pretty obvious hints that she’s interested for twenty minutes, and presses her up against the wall near the bathroom but still out in the open. She seems to enjoy it more than Marc does though, and is breathless when Marc breaks off to go find the bar again.

Bad decision. Kris’ angel of a girlfriend is leaning against the counter, ordering a drink, right next to Marc. She’s wearing skin-tight crop jeans with rips in them and a low-cut flannel. Her hair is shiny and golden, even in the dimly lit club. She tucks a loose lock of hair behind her ear, biting her bottom lip as she points to a bottle on the back shelf for the bartender. Marc almost trips over his feet trying to move the other way, but there’s a large mass of bodies crowded against the counter, blocking his exit. _Fuck_.

By incredible chance, the girl shifts her lax gaze over to Marc. Her eyes light up and her mouth drops, “Hey! You must be Marc! I’m Catherine, hi! Kris mentioned you earlier! It is so nice to meet you!” she extends her hand to shake Marc’s, who does so almost without even realizing it. His body is on autopilot at this point.

_Kris mentioned me earlier?_

“Nice to meet you,” Marc manages, giving a short nod and a smile. He looks over her shoulder, expecting Kris to pop out from behind the counter with a knife because Marc talked to his girlfriend.

“Grab a stool! What are you drinking? Can I buy you a drink? On me!” Catherine is smiling again and Marc just melts. She offers him the seat next to her and he takes it because his brain stopped functioning during warmups and he has nothing better to do.

_Great, she’s nice **and** polite. Kill me._

“Can I just get a Corona,” Marc makes wavering eye contact with the bartender who served him two shots of tequila already.

“Make it two,” Catherine smiles and Marc expected her to order some fruity little drink like a strawberry daiquiri or a piña colada or something, but when he looks back over, he realizes she didn’t order the drink for herself.

Marc’s in the middle of asking how Kris and she met when he sees Kris is standing with arm around her shoulder, staring at Marc. His cheeks are a warm, rosy pink, lips shiny, eyes bright. He’s clearly a bit drunk. And when Marc looks at him, Kris doesn’t look away. His chest tightens and he fights the urge to turn and run in the other direction. And suddenly, he can’t sit still, fingers fidgeting with his phone in his hand, trying to look everywhere but at Kris now.

“I see you’ve met Marc,” Kris says, and it’s not menacing and harsh, but light and charming. His voice and soft and low and smooth and Marc’s hands only fidget more. The way he says Marc’s name has his skin growing hot under his shirt.

“Oh, yes! He came out of nowhere and I just _had_ to introduce myself!” She’s pulling Kris closer with one of her arms around his waist and tips her head to rest on his shoulder affectionately. Kris keeps his eyes locked on Marc, lips pressed into a good-humored line, expression unreadable. His abs are very clearly exposed, chiseled and a bit sweaty. His pants rest low on his hips so Marc can make out only a little of the deep V of muscles that cuts from his hips to his abdomen.

The bartender comes back with the two beers and Kris and Marc clink them together by the request of Catherine (“Cheers for good luck!”), taking long, steady gulps. Marc finds out that Kris and Catherine first met at orientation when Kris got lost trying to find the dorms because he was reading the map wrong and then they saw each other again in the dining hall a few days later and then again at Horny’s party a while back. And then Marc remembers. The girl Kris was hooking up with in Hagelin’s kitchen. When Catherine mentions the party, Marc glances over to Kris who takes a sip of his beer, still watching Marc. He hasn’t looked at Catherine in a while, but his arm is still draped around her shoulder.

Marc sticks with a very bland, very dumb, “Oh, that’s nice.”

The conversation looks as though it might nosedive into an abyss of awkward silence. Kris knows what Marc knows and sends darts through his hot gaze if he dares to say a word. He raises a challenging eyebrow and there is no fear in Kris’ eyes, that’s for sure. It’s expectance, like he’s just waiting for Marc to bring it up, like he’s daring him to do it just to see what happens.

And then Kris is tugging Marc close for a badly angled side hug, “Marc’s a close buddy of mine, we’ve known each other since high school,” Kris smiles at Marc and it feels like it’s genuine. Their faces are so close. He could lean in another two inches and just…

Except Marc doesn’t recall knowing Kris since high school or being a close buddy of his.

“No way! Wow! What a coincidence that you two ended up at the same college!” Catherine looks like she might start clapping with how happy she is.

“Yeah. Dumb luck,” Marc replies, unsure of himself. He can feel Kris’ heat bleeding through his shirt into his shoulder.

Catherine’s phone goes off in her hand and she glances down at it and sighs, “Shit, it’s my dad, I have to get this. It’ll only take a minute. Don’t go anywhere!” She disappears into the crowd.

Kris turns to the counter and Marc follows his lead.

“Since when have we ‘known each other since high school’?” Marc says. Kris is staring straight forward.

“Of course you don’t remember,” Kris scoffs, mainly to his alcoholic beverage, and there’s that tone again, the one that says “screw you” without actually saying it.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Marc downs the rest of his beer because why stay sober in an uncomfortable situation when you could be completely plastered. He feels uneasy and his hands are getting clammy again.

“You went to Boston. I went to New York,” Kris says as if it’s fucking obvious and Marc is an idiot.

“So?” Marc flags down the bartender again for another beer. This is too much. Marc doesn't have the strength to play detective right now.

Everyone knows that TD Prep (Boston) and Madison Square Academy (New York) are long-standing rivals, but Marc has no idea that Kris went there or that Kris even existed at all during high school.

Kris is quiet for a bit, moving his finger to trace around the opening of the beer bottle. Marc wants to nudge him to get him to talk or something but then Catherine is calling his name because she just took the _funniest_ faceswap with Geno and OMG Kris has to come look at it.

“You’re a smart boy, Marc. Figure it out,” Kris says sharply before promptly standing and walking away. Marc sits at the bar for a while, staring at a replay of a baseball game from last night.

He goes over every single game he’d ever played in at Boston in his head, running over every shift. He remembers the time he got pulled after letting in two fiveholes in a row freshman year and when he got in a fight junior year and was suspended for ten games.

Around one in the morning, Marc figures it out. He’s drunker than he wanted to be, but he keeps ordering drinks anyway because every now and then he catches Kris and Catherine hooking up by the side exit next to a sketchy payphone and Marc opts to swallow his jealousy down with another shot of tequila instead of confronting himself and the fact that he’s got unreciprocated feelings for a teammate he drunkenly got with.

Boston and New York met for the first time that season of Marc’s senior year in late October in New York. The leaves had fallen and the trees were bare, Marc remembers, and his dad came down from Sorel-Tracy to watch the big rivalry game. His dad never wanted Marc to go to an American boarding school in the first place; he wanted his son to stay home and get recruited for a Canadian university because it costs less and Marc would be closer to home. But, Marc made the decision for himself and chose to go to Boston even if the Canadian high school league was better.

The game was a mess. In the first period, Marc let in three goals; he was lucky Coach didn’t pull him. He felt every set of eyes in the stands hot on him, glaring harder after each puck hit twine. In the second period, the boys tied it up, and in the third, Marc let in two back-to-back with five minutes left. It was downright embarrassing and Marc knew it. His dad was watching as was the whole school and God only knows how many college scouts.

He let his temper get to him.

With thirty seconds left in the game, a player on the other team bolted out of the penalty box after fulfilling his two minutes for roughing, and received a stretch pass from the other zone. It was just Marc and the New York kid on a breakaway and the kid deked left and then right, beating Marc to his gloveside. In a last second attempt, Marc took the player’s legs out with his stick and the kid flew into the boards shoulder first. To most everyone else, it looked like an accident, like the skater got his feet caught in Marc’s blade on the second fake, but Marc knew he was just angry and frustrated and wanted to end out the game with at least some of his dignity. The player was just a crumpled mess behind the goal line, face down, motionless. The trainer called for a stretcher and they wheeled the kid off the ice and that was all Marc remembers about the incident.

With wobbly legs, Marc stands from the bar, making his way to the exit gracelessly. Most of his teammates have left, but some still remain in the belly of the beast that is the bar at the edge of campus. His head feels like it’s made of lead and his mouth full of cotton as he stumbles out onto the curb. Cab. Call a cab. That is the adult thing to do.

The night is blurry and hazy, but Marc is in a cab, head pressed against the cool of the glass. He can’t stop thinking about the crumpled up body behind the net, knowing it was Kris, that Marc did that, that Marc could have seriously injured him. Marc is dizzy walking down the hallway of the dorm building. The yellow lights are too bright and his stomach is queasy. He remembers bumping into walls. He remembers the cool, dark dorm room. He remembers a freshly made bed. He remembers throwing up in the toilet. And he remembers blacking out.

 

 

 

 

Extra:

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you guys see the parallel between Marc tripping Kris in practice and Marc tripping Kris in the high school game ;)


	6. Cheating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: there's cheating in this chapter so... (btw Catherine is a goddess and amazing and this is just a fictional story)
> 
> Additional: lovestruck Marc and Mr. Sex Kris in this chapter

Clear, soft sunlight trickles through the blinds and dances across the floor. A fan whirs negligently in another room. The sheets Marc clutches to his chest smell like faint cologne and fabric softener. One of the near windows is cracked, a small breeze drifting in.

Blinking his eyes open experimentally, a pounding headache that snakes through his temple and dully presses pain behind his eyes reminds Marc that he didn’t, in fact, have a very good night. Scattered on the floor lay articles of clothing that Marc can’t identify as his except for maybe a balled up button down that bears a distant resemblance to the one he wore last night. The digital clock on the nightstand burns 11:24 AM in red. Empty water bottles litter the floor next to the trashcan.

Marc rolls over in the sheets, groaning at how his body aches and throbs as the muscles shift, finding that the room is empty. The springs in the bed creak and whine. For a good eight minutes, Marc stares at the same protein bar wrapper on the floor to focus his vision to prevent himself from hurling all over the side of the bed as nausea rolls in his stomach like waves on a beach.

It’s not Marc’s dorm room, he can tell that much. The walls aren’t decorated with any posters or banners and there are about four dents in the wall by the door that Marc doesn’t remember ever seeing.

In fact, the only thing that Marc actually does recognize is a crinkled, half-finished drawing of a penguin goalie that the little red haired girl from the fundraiser left behind. It’s the only thing that adorns the walls and it’s pinned right above the desk in the corner.

Warmth bleeds through Marc’s body as his dysfunctional, foggy head realizes that he spent the night in Kris’ bed. That Kris might’ve pressed up against him in the small space, that his breath might’ve been delicate against the back of Marc’s neck, fingers relaxed at Marc’s hip. The thought is small, but it blooms in his subconscious like a poisonous flower, beautiful and deadly.

He stands, suddenly and rickety, his legs moving separately from his body as he wobbles awkwardly to grab hold of the doorway out of the bedroom, pausing for a moment so his head might kindly stop fucking spinning for one goddamn second. And what if Kris pressed a kiss or two between Marc’s shoulder blades, just in secret, light and soft so Marc wouldn’t wake up. Just, maybe. Marc likes to believe Kris did, against his own better judgment and the fact that he’s so fucked, dammit, he can’t be wishing for these stupid goddamn things.

Marc shuffles to the kitchen, realizing he’s basically naked aside from a pair of boxers and his right sock. Great. Sitting at the kitchen island is Kris, scrolling his phone apathetically with one finger, shoveling cereal out of a red solo cup with a spoon in the other hand into his mouth. He doesn’t look up.

Marc studies him. Two gray crescent moons of sleeplessness have made homes underneath Kris’ dark eyes, and Marc doesn’t doubt that he has a pair under his own. He’s not wearing a shirt either and he’s got hickeys dotting his pulsepoint and collarbone. Marc glares at them as if they might possibly go away just because he wants them to.

It’s cool and vacant in the kitchen. Marc’s gaze slopes lazily across the counter, observing the various breads and fruits and boxes of bars cluttering the surface. A rather nice looking coffee maker holds coffee that looks like it’s been sitting out for at least an hour.

Some part of Marc’s mind imagines that Kris is standing with his back to Marc, shirtless and wearing a pair of PJ pants, like he’s wearing now, instead of sitting and ignoring him while attempting to shove a ridiculous amount of Special K into his face orifice. The legs of the pants are a few inches too long and the extra fabric pools at his feet. His back muscles move and undulate as he pads back and forth from the counter quietly. The pants dip low enough at the hips that Marc can see the dimples at his back. Kris turns ever so slightly to ask Marc to hand him the spatula from the kitchen island and his voice, for once, isn’t a bland, monotone growl.

And yet, the room is still. A door slams down the hall.

Marc’s thoughts are heavy and cloudy, that his head could think of something so plausible, yet so far from grasp. It’s the casualness of this invented moment that gives Marc’s brain the illusion that they could do this every morning, that Marc always could wake up late to Kris making them coffee, wearing nothing but PJ pants.

Marc shifts uncomfortably, wondering if Kris can read his thoughts and chooses to ignore that too. Marc’s eyes drop down to the hickeys on Kris’ skin again, a deep, dark purple.

“So… did we… last night, I mean…?” Marc begins uneasily.

Kris flicks his eyes up, disinterested. He chews on a hangnail; he doesn’t say anything.

“You know… did you and I…” Marc continues, slowly. He pantomimes vaguely.

Kris narrows his eyes ever so slightly. It’s on the brink of hostile. He rolls his eyes as if it’s borderline _obvious_ that they didn’t hook up again, God, Kris isn’t _that_ stupid that he’d get into bed with Marc a second time. A little part of Marc shrinks away.

“Okay,” Marc says blankly. _Talking is off limits now, I guess._ He sways over to the fridge and grips the edges to steady himself, opening it after forcing a wave of vomit back down his throat. He wouldn’t be able to recover from hurling in front of Kris like a first time hungover high school freshy. The cool air of the fridge rushes to meet the heat that has pooled in Marc’s cheeks. The lights in the fridge are dim and they look like they need to be changed. Marc taps one in the back experimentally. It flickers.

Marc observes distantly the objects in the fridge. A pizza box with only one piece left. Marc remembers last night Kris stepping into the night air, calling a cab, and shoving Marc into it after having a very aggressive, one-sided conversation. Marc had asked about Catherine. Kris didn’t respond. He remembers a silent ride. He remembers dropping his phone under the taxi driver’s seat and dysfunctionally attempting to force his limbs to cooperate and claw it from the crevice. He remembers the eerie night campus swirling by from the window of the car and the dizziness in his head and his thoughts. There’s a bottle of mustard and ketchup in the side door. No mayonnaise. Marc remembers Kris paying for the cab and helping Marc into the dorm building, looping a steady arm around Marc’s waist to secure his steps as he teetered sideways. He remembers the smell of Kris’ cologne and his voice, low and raspy _“You okay?”_ when Marc slumped against the wall to “take a little *hiccup* break.” There’s one yogurt sitting on the middle shelf. It’s raspberry. Marc feels bad taking the last one so he doesn’t. Marc remembers Kris sitting by the sink, resting his chin on his hand with tired eyes as Marc wretched the contents of his stomach into the toilet. He remembers Kris slipping Marc’s button-down off when he got too hot. Marc shuts the fridge, empty-handed. He remembers Kris helping Marc off the floor into bed, stumbling through the dark, accidentally leading Marc into the bedside table. Marc presses the bruise at his stomach, staring off to the side. He remembers Kris coaxing him under the covers, whispering a sleepy “goodnight.”

Marc stands still, facing the fridge, listening to the sound of his blood pulsing in his ears.

He desperately wants to break the calm surface of the dead silence, wants to say something suave and laid back like _“Hey, Catherine is cool_ ” or _“Nice goal last night,”_ but the silence seizes his thoughts and holds him back.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” Marc blurts out instead, because he truly is, he didn’t mean to, it wasn’t his fault, he was just a kid, he didn’t know what he was doing, but he wouldn’t have done it if he had just known it was...

He’s still holding onto the fridge. He can’t see Kris, but he hopes he’s not looking up. Marc presses his head against the cool, smooth surface of the fridge, squeezing his eyes shut. His legs feel like jell-o. It was just one dumb mistake from high school… he didn’t know it would matter later…

“I know,” Kris says after a bit.

Marc opens his eyes. He’s seeing spots.

“You wouldn’t shut up in the cab. You kept grabbing onto my shirt and apologizing. _I’m sorry, Kris, please forgive me, Kris, I didn’t want to hurt you, I didn’t, I swear,”_ Kris says. Red-hot embarrassment floods into Marc’s cheeks and ears, tinting them a rosy blush. He needs to go. He needs to get out of this kitchen, out of this dorm room, out of this building because Kris’ got a girlfriend and Marc wants to kiss Kris again, so bad, but that’s not okay, and since it didn’t happen last night when they were both drunk together again, then it won’t happen again period, and Marc can’t be this close and act like nothing’s wrong.

His thoughts blaze through his head like they’re being pushed through a bullhorn. _Why did we make out? Why did you do it if you hate me? Why would you hook up with me and then let me go?_ Marc sounds like such a _girl_ dammit, he can’t stand it, he’s supposed to be the one breaking hearts… not that his heart is broken, this is just a fight with a teammate is all...

“I, um, need to leave,” Marc states, more to the fridge than anything else. His stomach is doing flips as he stumbles out of the room. Kris’ gaze tracks him as he walks out, no doubt hearing the cussing and loud thuds of Marc attempting to search for his belongings. If he does hear it all, he gives no evidence of it as Marc slips out the front door without so much as a goodbye.

 

***

 

It’s two weeks later.

They’re in a hotel just outside of Boston. It’s late morning, cloudy outside, looking like rain later on. Marc’s duffel is open on a chair across the room. His dress shoes sit in a mangled pile under the chestnut-colored desk in the corner. His eyes trace the casual movement of Murray sitting crisscross on his own bed on the far side, absently watching TV, tossing a half-full water bottle up and down; it sloshes noisily, but Marc doesn’t say anything. Murray’s bed is still unmade from the night before. He shifts a lot in his sleep. The hotel room is quiet and Marc can hear Phil and Horny talking with low voices in the room over. The team traveled up to Boston on Friday to play their last two preseason games; last night, they lost in a shootout. Vokoun was in net.

Murray’s water bottle hits the floor. Sheets rustle as he shifts to retrieve it. Roommates weren’t pre-assigned—the players got to choose whom they wanted to spend the weekend with. After Kris chose to room with Kuni, Marc immediately accepted Murray’s offer without thinking. He _wanted_ to room with Murray, Marc tells himself, he’s a nice kid and he’s got a good sense of humor. Marc can see himself really hitting it off with him. Murray’s side of the room is quiet again. Marc can tell without looking that his eyes are glued to the screen once more.

Marc locks and unlocks his phone, each time hoping to see a message or a Snapchat waiting for him to be opened when he does. He’s hyperaware that Kris’ room is right across the hall from his, that Kris could just cross the hall and knock. He could do it in under ten seconds and then Marc would let him in and maybe they’d sit on the bed together and…

But, Kris has a girlfriend. And she’s pretty and funny and sweet, and Kris _likes_ her. Marc’s been thinking about Kris a lot lately, about his warm laugh and the way his hair peeks out from underneath his helmet and his lips, soft and pink, and his flushed cheeks after practice, and the way his shirts cling to his shoulder blades. But, it’s clear Kris doesn’t think about Marc. He’s made friends with pretty much everyone else on the team _except_ Marc. They don’t talk even. Kris talks to Murray and Vokoun, but never Marc. Sometimes Marc will be sitting in his stall, taping his stick or adjusting the screws that always come undone on his pads, and his eyes will naturally wander over to Kris, chatting somebody up, laughing or making a joke, and it cuts deep into Marc’s skin. And he tries not to care, God, he tries so hard not to, but there’s something in those dark eyes and level voice that draws Marc in despite himself. No matter how many times Marc reminds himself that Kris is very unopposed to any interaction with him, he still drags himself through this agony of high hopes and rejection. He blames it on that night after the party.

Things aren’t as bad as they used to be; the silence between the two isn’t exactly full of abhorrence as it had been for the first month, or maybe Marc’s just gotten used to it. Then there’s that little sliver of hope that always manages to wedge its way into Marc’s thoughts and plant the idea that what if Kris accepted Marc’s drunken apology? What if slowly, the barriers between them were disintegrating and leaving room for something else to form? It’s the hope that keeps Marc in a constant state of limbo, staring at the hotel room door, expecting Kris to barge in any moment…

Marc sees him at parties sometimes, in the middle of the thicket of bodies, bouncing up and down to the beat of the music, Bud Light in hand, oblivious of Marc. Sometimes Kris’ with Catherine on the outskirts of the crowd, lips locked, hands roaming, too drunk to care who’s watching because it’s college and sex is a big part of it, so what if people see?

Kris is untouchable in Marc’s mind, like he’s standing behind an electric fence, grinning and whispering sharp words of endearment just so Marc can come close to the fence and feel the heat of the current that keeps them apart, before stepping back again. There’s always distance between them, and Marc secretly blames it on Kris and his inability to confront any issue he’s uncomfortable with—Kris likes to be in control, anything that borders on unusual and he’s already gone.

And what kills Marc the most is Kris is just so _casual_ about the whole thing. He shoots Marc a glare and ignores him for the better part of practice and most of the time he simply looks at Marc with those empty, vacant eyes as if he’s never seen Marc a day in his life. It doesn’t seem to bother Kris at all, the extra effort to make Marc feel unimportant, it’s engraved in his daily schedule practically. But, it makes Marc’s heart ache and throb and drives him up a wall, directing him in the direction of the bar to order another shot of tequila or to talk to that cute redhead who keeps looking at her phone like she’s got a curfew or an ex she wishes would text.

The white noise of the TV fills the room like sad piano music at a funeral. Marc wants to shut it off, but Murray’s eyes are still locked on the screen like it’s feeding him all the information he’s ever wanted in life.

Marc could text Kris. He could start a conversation. It’s not like Kris is actually doing something right now. Except maybe he’s napping or focusing or doing his pregame routine. What if Marc interrupts him? That would shove Marc, undoubtedly, lower on Kris’ totem poll, lurking somewhere near Stalin and Lucifer. Because Kris is irrational and amplifies all of Marc’s actions by -10.

Marc unlocks his phone and opens up his messages to Kris. The last time they talked, Marc asked what the Macro homework was. It was just textbook reading and Marc already knew that, but he just wanted to make sure is all, you can never be too sure about homework. His fingers dance across the keys.

 

**r u gonna go out with the team after the game?**

Marc stares at each little letter. He doesn’t send it. Oh, but does he want to. He wants to press send and then wait for Kris’ read receipts to pop up and maybe even get the opportunity to witness the three little pending dots that represent Kris’ typing back. They could get drunk again and maybe make out, possibly even take it a little farther than last time. He’d let Kris fuck him, even if it were empty sex and Kris was too far gone to be able to remember it in the morning. He erases the text and locks his phone, slipping it under his leg in pretend ignorance that it’s there.

Marc had thought about it more than he’d care to admit in the past few weeks. And the more he tried to suppress the idea of Kris thrusting into him, leaning over him, rolling his hips, breathing heavy, the more infatuated with the possibilities Marc became.

Anxiously, he grabs the phone again, typing out another text.

 

**r u doing anything after the game?**

 

He presses send before he has time to hate himself and shame his thoughts away from contacting Kris. And then he is still. The text comes ten minutes later when Marc is contemplating hurling himself out of their ninth-story hotel window. Murray is oblivious, tugging at a loose string on his sock.

 

**no**

Marc reads and wants to type out every question buzzing through his brain. _Are you gonna go out with the team? Me neither. Wanna hang? We should do something._

 

**cool**

Marc types out and Kris never does respond, but even that isn’t necessarily a bad thing in Marc’s opinion.

 

***

 

Marc’s toes twitch in his skates. His eyes linger on the scoreboard for a few long moments before the ref blows the whistle. 10.4 seconds left on the clock for the third period and Marc has his shutout and the Pens win, 1-0, that’s all Marc needs to get through, 10.4 seconds of play. He grips his stick tighter in his right hand and stretches his catcher out to prepare himself for the play, hovering over his pads with determination. Kris leans over his stick, eyes locked on the puck, legs frozen still. The Boston crowd is loud and rowdy and obnoxious, even for a preseason game. Sid is taking the faceoff against Bergeron. Horny is stationed elbow-to-elbow with Marchand. The extra player, the captain, Chara, a massive brick of a kid, lingers at the hashmarks, no doubt headed to the front of the net when the puck is dropped.

Bergeron wins the faceoff back to the point for the Bruins, and Marc can practically _feel_ the seconds ticking off, melting down. The defenseman crosses the puck to the other defensemen who tucks to the center. Chara parks himself in the middle lane. Marc would curse at a moment like this, but his brain is in panic mode, searching for a ray of vision through the masses of bodies. _Stay up if he takes the shot, Marc, stay up and you might get a piece of it._ Kris attempts to push the massive Bruin captain out of the way, making little difference in his efforts. The defenseman up top sends the puck to the right dot, and out of the corner of his eye, Marc spots the other wing drop backdoor. He respects the angle of the player with the puck, knowing full well where the pass is going. He doesn’t dare move his eyes to check the time on the clock. He can hear the hum of a thousand voices uncoordinatedly crying out “SHOOT IT.”

Marc tracks the pass back door easily, beating the forward to the empty net, and making an acrobatic glove save. The final buzzer rings out and Marc is _elated_. He did it. His first college shutout, even if it was just a preseason game. The crowd seems to sag and wane and Marc feels like tossing his gloves in the air like he just won the Stanley Cup. But, he doesn’t. His teammates file off the bench to make their congratulatory head taps. Geno practically kisses Marc’s mask.

“Unreal, Flower,” Duper grins, thumping his stick against his pad.

Murray looks as if he might pee himself he’s so excited. He won’t stop _talking_. “And when they crossed it, I was _sure_ he was gonna take the shot, _holy shit_ , he could’ve gone _anywhere_ , but then he _passed it_ , and you just _beat him_ , oh it was so cool, you should’ve _seen it!_ Well, obviously you couldn’t ha—.”

Marc just grins and Murray nods sheepishly, clamming up instinctively.

When Kris skates up to Marc, it’s as though time is slowing down just for him, so he can savor the moment and play it over in his mind when he’s alone tonight, staring at cream-colored hotel ceiling, waiting for sleep. Kris’ eyes are a murky chocolate, shifting across Marc’s face, piercing his skin. Marc can feel his nerves prickle and tingle. Kris’ cheeks are flushed and pink, expression neutral and reserved as he closes in on Marc, touching their heads together, and Marc doesn’t want to separate. In the other games, Kris skipped out on the head touch with Marc, just huddled towards the back of the line for the salute or lingered to the side with the other guys. Kris’ face is so close, only distanced by their touching cages.

 _“Nice job,”_ Kris whispers, and it’s downright explicit the way his lips form the accented words in French Canadian. Marc can’t even spit out a “thanks” in fear that he might stutter through the simple word like a bashful child. He just stands, stock still, observing as well he can before Kris tears away and exits down the tunnel with everybody else.

 

***

 

Marc has just gotten out of the shower, only wearing a towel around his waist, combing his fingers through his dark, sopping hair in an attempt to drag out the knots. The excess water has cooled on his body, leaving his light skin taught and cold. The rest of the guys make their way in and out of the locker room bathroom, some dressed, some, not so much. A group of about six or seven guys already left for the bar ten minutes before, buzzing with the excitement of anticipation, the confirmation of girls and booze that comes with celebrating after a big win. Kris comes over offhandedly when Marc is buttoning up his shirt, slipping his beanie on over his wet hair even though it’s not that cold outside.

“You going out?” Kris offers, and Marc didn’t realize Kris was standing there, but now focuses all his attention on the other man.

Taken aback, Marc shakes his head no, even though he had planned to go out because he always does and it helps him take his mind off of… other things…

Kris slips his hands in his pockets coolly.

Marc fixes his collar.

“Me neither,” Kris states simply.

Marc stomach is suddenly filled with what feels like a thousand butterflies on crack. His fingers fumble to slide his arms into the sleeves of his jacket.

“Oh,” Marc’s brain has left the building. He stares blankly at Kris who stares back weightily.

A flash of Kris’ determined gaze in his kitchen dorm room that night after the party claws its way back into Marc’s mind, begging to be seen, begging to be noticed. Marc blinks hard and it looks as if Kris might be losing interest, shifting his weight from foot-to-foot, uncomfortable, but more likely bored.

“We should do something,” Marc states dumbly. It’s so vague and broad. “Something” could range from lets watch a movie to lets suck each other’s dicks to lets make a satanic blood pact to complete the final step of the reincarnation.

Kris seems to know what he wants “something” to mean and nods his head in the slightest.

“My room. Kuni’s gonna be out the whole night anyway,” Kris says and then he’s turning and walking out, pressing Marc to catch up.

 

***

 

Marc’s not freaking out. He’s not. He’s calm, collected, cool. He’s gripping his phone so tightly in his hands that his knuckles are white because he’s just so relaxed. He’s probably just going to Kris’ hotel room because Kris wants to hang and watch TV, maybe snag a few bottles from the mini bar. Completely normal. And Kris doesn’t seem affected even the slightest, striding confidently down the hall, glancing expressionlessly at the generic paintings on the hotel walls, sliding the key card into the door and leaving it open enough for Marc to enter behind him. The hall is empty. None of their teammates know they’re together, just that they came back to the hotel individually and probably don’t feel up for partying tonight.

On the walk back, the heavens opened up and soaked the city streets with rain. Kris had called a cab and Marc had watched the raindrops race down the window, glinting against the streetlamps instead of making conversation.

One of the lamps in the corner is on, shedding dim yellow light. Kris and Kuni probably forgot to turn it off earlier and it was on the entire time they were out. Marc shuffles his feet across the plain-patterned rug cautiously, like he’s not supposed to be there, like Kris might change his mind if he’s too loud with his steps. The room is frozen, like everything is stuck in stone, like it might never move again. It’s the same setup as Marc’s room, but surprisingly cleaner. Both beds are made. There’s a zipped up duffel in the crevice between the near bed and the wall and an opened one on the desk chair near the far bed. Kris is loosening his tie nonchalantly, back to Marc, but he can see Kris’ reflection in the mirror, face straight and unchanged as he rolls up the material in his fingers and tucks it into the far duffel. Marc wants to sit down, but he’s too nervous to make a move. What if he read this wrong? What if Kris invited him back so they could talk things out like adults?

Kris has a girlfriend. Her name is Catherine. She is very pretty and very nice… and Kris is shrugging his suit jacket off. Marc watches his muscles swell and relax against the thin material of his button-down.

He glances at Marc from the side, a slightly bemused smile playing at his lips, but it could just be the lighting and the fact that Marc can’t get enough oxygen to his brain to form coherent opinions.

“You good?” Kris offers. His shoes are off. When did he take his shoes off? His socks are purple. A very pretty purple, like an over-ripe blueberry.

Marc can’t stop staring at his fucking socks.

“Yeah, fine, really good. Is that your bed? I sleep on that side of the room too, I just—,” Marc can’t stop himself once he’s started, but then Kris is staring at him with a soft fascination and Marc just aborts the rest of the sentence. He’s fully aware that Kris is only wearing his undershirt and dress pants and Marc is still fully dressed in his entire suit. He could leave now. He could open the door and walk out. He still has all his clothes on and they haven’t done anything yet. He’d have a good twelve steps on Kris if he takes him by surprise. His room is 939, just across the hall; he’d make it into his room just as Kris realizes he bolted. Marc’s fingers casually palm his suit jacket pocket to find the little rectangular key card.

Kris tugs open the curtains to reveal the city below, shutting off the lamp in the corner. Lit buildings and cars flash and glow absentmindedly against the dark. A quiet buzz of nightlife seeps into the hotel room, breaking the silence temporarily. The rain pelts against the window noisily.

Kris is facing him now, body relaxed. He’s very well built, large biceps, defined abs, and powerful legs through his clothes. He reminds Marc of a racehorse somehow. His hands are rather large and he’s cracking his knuckles. Marc almost winces. It must be a bad habit.

“You shouldn’t do that,” Marc says dumbly, like his filter disappeared somewhere on the walk back and now Marc just can’t _shut the hell up_ for the life of him.

Kris cracks his knuckles again, this time louder. A small smirk has made its way onto Kris’ face and Marc can’t stop looking at the other man, mesmerized.

Marc can't hear the rain outside anymore, it must've slowed down and sputtered out.

Kris is moving forward now, steps slow and deliberate, unafraid. The city is in the background, alive and electric and so ignorant to the light that’s filling Marc’s chest so bright and luminous. When Kris is standing right before him, Marc looks away, eyes darting to the floor, to the TV, to the ceiling, to the city outside, because he can’t look at Kris, not when he wants this so much and it doesn’t feel real and…

And Kris’ fingers are so gentle as they unbutton Marc’s suit jacket, so gentle you’d never have guessed some of the terrible things Kris said to Marc just weeks before or the way that Kris glared, burning holes in Marc enough to make him never let him this close again. Kris’ fingers move slowly, as if waiting for Marc to tell him to stop, to tell him to get off, get away. His hands slide the jacket off of Marc’s shoulders and Marc’s form allows it, reclining his shoulder blades and letting the expensive article drop to the ground behind him with a muted thud. Kris’ eyes study Marc’s face, very, very near to his and moving in closer still in the dimly lit room. It’s almost like none of this counts, for it’s so drastically different from last time, Kris’ ginger touch, one of his hands holding delicately onto Marc’s arm as if to reassure him in place, and his lips pressing so tenderly to Marc’s, chaste and slow, savoring the moment, experimenting and deciding whether or not he likes it better than drunkenly making out against a fridge.

Marc can feel the heat burning in his cheeks, the breath stuck in his lungs. He’s falling and he’s not sure if he wants to stop. Kris breaks the kiss just as gradually and carefully as he entered into it, studying Marc’s face, moving his other hand to rest on the back of Marc’s neck.

Marc can count his heartbeats as they pound in his ears. One. Two. Three. Four. “Do that again,” Marc whispers it like a prayer, and he feels so _stupid_ , but he wants it, leaning forward and connecting their lips quickly before Kris can even nod, threading his fingers through Kris’ hair.

Kris’ hands find their way to Marc’s lower back, resting there as if this is something they do all the time. And it’s just the two of them, Marc realizes, no audience. He deepens the kiss and Kris backs Marc up to the edge of the bed until they’re both sitting knee-to-knee, making out like a new high school couple, still figuring each other out. A little corner of Marc’s conscience sparks to life.

Kris has a girlfriend. Her name is Catherine. She is very pretty and very nice… and Kris’ fingers are fussing with Marc’s shirt buttons.

“Wait,” Marc breathes and Kris immediately stops like he was waiting for it.

He observes Marc distantly like Marc put the stars in the sky and Marc can’t even talk right now dammit he’s so fucking gone.

“You have a girl—you’ve got Catherine,” Marc says, flustered.

Kris looks at him, expression a little darker now, “So?”

And that hurts a bit because Catherine didn’t do anything wrong and here Marc is, making out with her boyfriend in a dark hotel room 500 miles away. Kris rubs circles against Marc’s shoulder, “She won’t know.”

It’s just the two of them. No audience.

Marc surrenders. He lets Kris press him against the mattress. He lets Kris undress him slowly, as though Kris wanted to memorize Marc looking up at him with needy eyes, lips shiny and parted, as if he will never get to touch Marc like this again, and maybe he won’t, maybe this is the last time this happens, Marc thinks. He arches up into Kris’ touch as strong, calloused hands run across his chest and stomach, hips and thighs, and none of it feels like they shouldn’t be doing this is the problem. It’s like what they’re doing behind closed doors is perfect and real and it doesn’t matter that Kris ignored Marc and Marc felt every bit of Kris’ bitterness magnified by his own imagination.

He lets Kris open him up slowly, pushing back onto his three lube-covered fingers, moaning quietly into the pillows, rolling his leaking cock against the sheets, begging for more friction. Kris is breathing heavy, radiating heat as he slowly pushes into Marc until the sweaty skin on his chest is brushing gently against the sweaty skin of Marc’s back, flushed against the other. _This is not weird. This is not weird at all. Fucking around with your teammate is fine._ Marc grasps the sheets. Kris moves oh, so slowly. The room feels still and calm. The comforter is lying on the floor somewhere forgotten. It was navy blue, Marc recollects. Outside, cars pass by with bright lights and loud horns that sound like an angelic breeze from this high up. The storm that was once calm has started up again, roaring and howling like a wild beast, beating against the building and shaking the skies. Kris snaps his hips forwards suddenly and Marc lets out a gasp, tossing his head back. Kris brushes a stubbly cheek against Marc’s, nibbling his earlobe teasingly. His hands grip Marc’s sides so hard and Marc wishes they’d leave bruises he could remember the feeling later.

Kris creates an irregular rhythm, slow then fast, drawing out the night, drawing out the moment, leaving Marc on edge, head spinning, voice caught in his throat. Marc lasts longer than he thought he would. When he knows he can’t take anymore, he wraps a hand around himself and strokes the head of his dick quickly with the flick of his wrist until he’s coming into the sheets, a loud moan escaping past his lips in ecstasy. Kris follows soon after, pulling out and coming on Marc’s back in messy stripes of white, hand on his ass all the while, moan low in his throat.

Hot and muscles sore, Marc roles over onto his back, staring at the cream-colored ceiling as his breathing evens out, chest rising and falling rapidly. Kris collapses by his side, half-heartedly attempting to clean the sticky sex off of Marc’s skin. He’s hyperaware of Kris’ breathing, of Kris’ body so near to his. Kris could lace an arm around Marc and pull him close, could sleep with him through the night like that. Exhaustion from the night’s events threatens to pull him under the surface, but questions prod at Marc’s subconscious. _What did we just do? Are we okay now? What about Catherine? What are we even doing?_

When Kris stands and shuffles over to the other bed, Marc doesn’t roll over to watch him. He just stares at his shadow on the wall as it transforms and condenses. Within ten minutes, Kris’ breathing has slowed. He can hear the rain falling steadily outside, gentle, and almost worn out. Marc rolls over at one point late in the night, watching Kris motionless and peaceful, still unable to find sleep for himself, fighting the thoughts so loud and so irritating and so repetitive berating his conscience.

Kris has a girlfriend. Her name is Catherine. She is very pretty and very nice… and Kris just cheated on her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Extra:

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always appreciated!! Xoxo


	7. Out

It’s Wednesday practice, which means conditioning in preparation for the weekend stretch.

Marc kneels off to the side, resting his glove and blocker on his pad, catching his breath by the benches. He pulls his mask up, spraying water across his face. Steam rises from his exposed skin. He watches it with glazed eyes. It’s the forwards’ turn to sprint. The cool wind rushing off them as they spray powdered snow. Blueline to blueline to redline to blueline. The only sound echoing across the empty rink is the quiet _shh shh_ of strides and quick stops. Marc already sprinted with Vokoun and Murray. He beat both of them every time, except for the one time when he caught an edge.

Coach Sullivan blows his whistle.

Break.

Breathe.

Marc’s pulse pounds in his ears. The sound of heavy breathing and panting for air carries across the boards.

The whistle blows once more and the forwards start up again.

Kris glides over to where Marc is settled, his legs moving heavily like they drag behind him the burden of the world. Eagerly, he grabs a water bottle, missing his mouth almost completely when he goes to drink. His breathing is ragged and desperate, but still controlled. He leans his weight against the boards, looking over to Marc. He doesn’t say anything, just stares.

Marc tries to ignore him. He’s angry with Kris, he’s decided. He’s angry because Catherine is nice and either he told her and broke her heart or didn’t tell her and lied to her. Either way, it makes Marc feel sick and guilty and furious because why did Kris invite him back to his room? He shouldn’t have gone back, no matter how bad he wanted to. He thought Kris hated him, unless he accepted Marc’s drunken apology the other night and even then, they shouldn’t be peachy keen. Wounds that deep take time to heal…

“You doing anything after? Kuni and Sid and Duper and Geno and me, we were all gonna go out for pizza and beers later, you can come too if you want,” Kris says casually.

_So, like a date, but with a bunch of other guys there too, so it’s not **really** a date?_

Or at least that’s how Marc’s brain wants to see the situation.

“How’s Catherine?” Marc says dryly, not in a jealous way, but in a way that says _YOU’RE IN A RELATIONSHIP, YOU DICKFACE._

Kris’ face turns dark so fast. Marc’s afraid Kris might never speak to him again by the way he’s looking at him with a dense dislike that blocks out everything else going on. It’s sort of like Kris had forgotten that he was dating another person. Marc eyes him warily, standing up. His legs are tingly and wobbly from the end of practice sprints.

The whistle blows.

Break.

Breathe.

“She’s fine,” Kris says, voice forced.

Silence.

Kris’ breathing has leveled.

The whistle blows once more and the forwards start up again for the last time.

“Why don’t you take her out tonight instead?” Marc replies evenly. There’s a foreign distance between them.

“Because I’m asking _you_ ,” Kris states, rolling his eyes dramatically, as if he doesn’t have to explain himself or his flawed reasoning.

“You _should_ be asking _her_ ,” Marc retorts and if it comes across as ungrateful, he couldn’t give a fuck.

 _“But I’m not,”_ Kris hisses stubbornly.

The whistle blows for the last time and a collective relieved sigh extends across the ice. Some guys are lying on their backs, others kneeling, the rest hanging off the boards.

Marc wants to ask why he won’t ask her out, wants to ask if they had a fight, wants to ask if she _knows._

And hadn’t Marc wanted this as of late? After the abhorrence and distrust left, a fascination replaced it and drew Marc to Kris in the most irritating way, because Marc wanted to hate Kris back with as much passion and fury that Kris had hated him. But, Kris invited him to a night out, whatever that means, no doubt there’s something physical that Kris has in mind for them because he couldn’t care less about getting to know Marc for Marc, that’s why he’s doing this in the first place, right? Because he doesn’t need an actual relationship with Marc, just a quick fuck without all the emotions and feelings and drama? He can get handholding and movie nights and cuddling with Catherine, but with Marc he can get hotel rooms and rough hands and the excitement that a mundane relationship that plays by the rules can’t give.

Marc looks at Kris, really _looks_ at him, as if for the first time he’s actually seeing Kris, as if before this moment, he never really noticed him. And yet, in this moment, Marc studies Kris’ expression, one of irritation and unease, almost _vulnerable_. But it only lasts briefly; Kris puts walls up between them and the expression fades to one of dispassionate distaste, his default face around Marc most days.

The rest of their teammates slink over to center ice to stretch and Marc follows to avoid drawing attention to Kris and himself—the last thing they need is Sid acting as some kind of dating councilor after two sloppy hookups.

 

***

 

Marc’s dorm room is eerily quiet. His roommates are never around anymore, so it’s always silent. The only evidence that they really exist is the lack of food in the fridge after Marc goes grocery shopping. He sits on the couch facing the TV, feet on a dingy little coffee table he bought at a yard sale a few weeks back. There’s a huge crack across it, but it functions just as well as any other table would. The TV itself is turned off and Marc stares at his own bored reflection, challenging it to tell him what to do. His phone sits face-up on his thigh. He’s got a missed call from his mom from that morning, but he doesn’t feel like calling her back as well as an unopened text from Kris. Every now and then, his eyes skim over the words for the hundredth time since he received the text an hour ago.

**r u coming?**

He glances down at the text until his phone dims and then switches to black, pressing the home button to illuminate the screen once more to re-read the text.

The room is pretty much dark except for the late afternoon light peeking from under the curtains.

He clicks the TV on once more and skims a couple channels back to Animal Planet. He’s been turning the TV on and off for the past twenty minutes, contemplating whether or not he should accept Kris’ offer and go out. He knows what place they’re talking about, it’s on south campus next to a really dinky looking bowling alley he went to with Duper and Sid a few weekends back.

It won’t be crowded on a Wednesday night; no one Marc knows will see him there. Besides, none of their teammates know anything is up… unless Kris told somebody, which is doubtful because Kris himself practically doesn’t want to know anything is up.

_Just go for thirty minutes and then leave. It’s not like you have anything better to do. Were you going to try to get into Game of Thrones again? Yeah, that’s what I thought._

Marc drags himself to the bedroom, passing his reflection in the mirror. He looks disheveled and tired. After practice, he skipped the shower to get to his Calc class on time, went to Chipotle, and returned to the dorms for a three-hour nap. His skin is still sticky from his gear and his hair is dry, but greasy. He stares at it for a good ten seconds before forcing himself to shower. He could’ve very well gotten away with washing his face and spraying some of that crap Axe body spray that his roomies practically use to fumigate the place. It’s horrendous and musky and gets in your mouth and down your throat.

The spray of the shower is lukewarm bridging on cold, as usual. He told himself it’d be a three-minute shower because he actually has no idea what time he’s allowed to show up. They might have already done their damage and left. Marc’s just so _sleepy_ though. He rests his head against the shower wall and zones out, imagining Kris’ standing behind him, hands around his waist, chin resting on his shoulder, lips soft against his cheek. His breathing is quiet and concentrated, eyes fluttering shut as the distant rush of water fills his ears.

_*I’m the type of girl you wanna chew all of my bubblegum*_

Marc’s eyes snap open, whipping back the shower curtain. His phone is vibrating and spazzing on the sink counter, a call from his mom.

_*I’m the type of girl you wanna take to yo mama house*_

Marc stares at the device until the song rings out, eyes blank. He shuts off the shower and wraps a towel around his hips. Two missed calls from mom today. In front of the mirror, he examines his face. He opts out of shaving and brushing his hair because suddenly he doesn’t exactly care if he looks prom ready. He tugs a hand through his hair lazily, exiting back into his bedroom to find a clean shirt. He jams open the dresser and sifts through the heaps of material. The ringtone was Hags’ idea. The team was driving back from Buffalo and Beau accidentally brought Paul Blart: Mall Cop instead of Remember the Titans because _“it was in the wrong case! I swear it was an accident!”_ And that same day, Marc and Hags almost missed the bus because they were in town and Hags’ phone was dead and Marc’s was on silent and couldn’t hear the eight times Sid called him. So, as a punishment of sorts, Hags changed Marc’s ringtone to that of one of the characters from the movie in hopes that _“maybe next time you’ll pick up your damn phone.”_ Marc didn’t have the motivation to change it.

All the shirts in the top drawer are too fancy to wear just for a night out. He spots a crumpled mess of olive-colored fabric at the foot of his bed that he wore to the movies last Monday. It’s a bit wrinkly, but it doesn’t smell weird or anything, so he pulls it over his head. It sticks to his still-wet skin. Pants are a significantly easier task because you can tell if a pair is dirty if there’s a stain. He shuffles around for his favorite jeans but remembers they’re still M.I.A. from the beating they took from a chocolate cupcake at the fundraiser.

_*I’m the type of girl you wanna chew all of my bubblegum*_

Marc hisses and glares at his phone on the dresser from across the room. He’s elbow deep in his laundry bag, fishing around for a pair of black jeans. His fingers brush denim and he wrenches it from the bottom of the pile.

_*I’m the type of girl you wanna take to yo mama house*_

_“Fuck, mom this is **not** the time to ask me where the potholders are…” _ Marc groans under his breath, stumbling into a pair of boxers, still soaking wet.

The phone vibrates for two more beats and hangs up prematurely just as Marc hops his way over to the dresser, pulling on the black jeans simultaneously. She probably got sick of hearing the dial tone.

7:12 the clock on his phone reads. He pauses, contemplating whether or not he actually wants to go out. The blue quilted jacket hanging on the back of his desk chair threatens him silently. Game of Thrones is still an option… and his keys are all the way in the other room on the kitchen counter and he has to put on his shoes and oh _God,_ this is too much work.

 _Thirty minutes. Then you can fuck off for the rest of the night_ , Marc bargains with himself because he’s admittedly a bit lonely and curious as to what Kris is playing at, so he gets the rest of the way dressed, grabs his keys and jacket, and steals off down the hall to catch a bus to south campus.

 

***

 

On the bus as they were making their way down main street past yellow streetlamps against the cold night sky, Marc’s mom calls again. She’s in a panic, a fit of rage and worry and fussing over Marc and every little whim that caught itself in her spiderweb of motherly anxieties.

_“Are you eating enough?”_

_“Have you made any friends?”_

_“How are your classes?”_

_“Don’t **tell** me that you walk back to the dorms alone at night, you could get mugged!”_

Marc rolls his eyes and lets her finish. The bus slows to a halt just inside of south campus; Marc has to walk down another block.

 _“How’re your teammates? Oh, Marc, we miss you so much!”_ His mom exclaims. Marc is only half listening. He waves a thank you to the bus driver and steps out into the night air.

 _“Really? Interesting,”_ Marc says blandly.

He should’ve brought a scarf. And a winter hat. His hair is still wet, dripping a bit onto the collar of his jacket. The baseball cap he grabbed on his way out the door isn’t doing much for his ears. A brisk late breeze cuts into his exposed cheeks. He presses the phone closer to his ears and shoves his other hand in his pocket, scuffing his way down the darkened, empty street. Gloves wouldn’t be too bad right now either.

 _“Where are you right now? I can **hardly** hear you,”_ His mom fusses.

 _“Out,”_ Marc replies childishly.

 _“Out **where**?” _ She sounds like she’s about to go off on another worrisome lecture about the dangers of wandering the streets alone at night.

 _“M’just meeting some friends, okay? Kris invited me to—,”_ Marc starts, but his mom interjects immediately, _“Kris? You mean that **awful** teammate of yours who let you take a shot to the face in practice? Oh! I don’t like him, Marc, he’s **bad news**. You shouldn’t hang around him. I thought you said he was a defenseman? Aren’t they supposed to **protect** you? I knew this was a horrible idea—_.”

Marc sighs and pulls the phone away from his ear for a moment, suddenly drained. He loves his mom dearly, but sometimes she’s a little overbearing. After the loss against Chicago, Kris came to Tuesday practice a few weeks back with a bad attitude. Marc had wanted Coach to kick him off the ice because of the omni-present stormcloud of negativity lingering above his head the whole time. And on that specific day, it was as if Kris was participating in every single drill that Marc was; he was always hanging around the front of the net. Towards the end of practice, Marc had had enough and was on the verge of telling Kris off himself when Geno came down just above the hashmarks and ripped a shot right into Marc’s cage. Kris had just stood there and watched it happen; he didn’t move to push the forward out or even pressure the shot. In a fit of emotions after practice, when he answered a phone call from his mom, Marc went _off_ about the incident in practice. It was a moment of weakness. It really was a petty thing to be upset about and he had been _so_ careful about not telling his mom about Kris because she’d just _obsess_ over it and it would break her sweet heart that somebody was treating her son poorly.

 _“And you remember how bad **that** ended up being. Just promise me you’ll take better care of yourself,” _ She sounds so fragile over the phone, Marc thinks.

 _“Yeah_ ,” Marc says without thinking.

He spots the glowing neon sign for the pizza place and shuffles a little quicker to escape the cold. As he pushes through the door, a little bell overhead jingles. The warmth from the ovens embraces and draws him in. The atmosphere has a cozy glow to it, reminding Marc of Christmas and a warm fire and those tiny white fairy light things.

 _“Oh, anyway. Do you happen to know where those handmade potholders are? I always forget where I put them and your father never—,”_ Marc’s mom’s voice is chirping in his ear again as he scans the room. It’s not very packed. There’s a couple sitting at a booth, both of them on their phones. Sitting at a table in the middle is a family with two small kids. There are a few groups of college kids at the bar with beers, laughing and talking amiably.

 _“Under the sink, next to the paper towels,”_ Marc says the words automatically.

 _“I checked under the sink, those aren’t the **handmade** ones. Your Aunt Mae brought those back from Scotland when she—,” _ She goes off on a tangent again.

Marc can’t see anyone who he recognizes in the slightest. One of the small children at the family table waves to Marc and Marc half waves back uncomfortably even though he’s never seen the kid before in his life. What if they already left? That was certainly a possibility that he had mulled over in his head before he left, but he never actually thought that would _actually_ happen. Or maybe they never came in the first place, maybe Kris invited Marc to a hang out that never actually existed out of spite. Or maybe they went to a different pizza place?

He swallows roughly, mouth suddenly very dry.

 _“Above the stove,”_ Marc feels a bit dizzy.

 _“I moved them out of there last spring to fit my aprons,”_ His mom replies swiftly and _God_ who cares, they’re just fucking _potholders._

How is Marc supposed to know the whereabouts of his mother’s kitchen cloths? He’s not even home!

He scoots around a table placed inconveniently close to the front entrance, almost knocking over a stack of wooden chairs, still clutching his phone to his face. A couple people look over, mildly annoyed, and Marc feels so _small,_ why did he come out in the first place? He didn’t even want to come out, he had no interest to, this is such a waste!

 _“Did you look by the—,”_ Marc begins, exasperated, when he sees Kris, walking towards him, wearing a backwards hat, a thin stone-blue hoodie, and a pair of those khaki pants that every college guy owns, a slightly amused expression on his face. Marc can’t remember what he was saying because Kris’ attention is focused on Marc and Marc alone and he forgets that he’s supposed to be mad at Kris and that he thought Kris abandoned him in this dumb pizza place on a Wednesday night and that his mom still can’t find the damn potholders.

There’s something bright and exciting in Kris’ eyes that stays only for a moment before it’s gone.

“Didn’t think you were gonna come,” Kris grins a little out of the corner of his mouth.

Marc is almost dazed.

“Me neither,” he manages, vaguely aware that his mom is still on the other end.

 _“What are you talking about? Hello? Are you there?”_ Marc’s mom quibbles.

Kris is practically glowing under the gentle caress of the romanticizing restaurant lights, jawline sharp, eyes cloudy, face cleanly shaven. And Marc instantly really fucking wished he brushed his hair.

“I’ve gotta go,” Marc says objectively, words directed more at the phone than to his mom. Kris watches him intently as he hangs up the call and shoves his phone in his pocket.

A quick glance behind Kris and Marc can see Duper, Kuni, Sid, and Geno hovering around a pack of pool tables in a small side room, terribly angled so that any person entering might simply never know it existed. Kuni leans over the felt table, pointing something out and making accentuating hand gestures. Geno stares deadpan, shaking his head and pointing to the other end of the table. Duper and Sid stand off to the side, leaning on their pool cues, bored with the argument. Kuni stalks off to the other side of the table, grabbing the cue ball sorely. Geno lunges at him, attempting to pry it out of the smaller man’s hand, but Kuni pushes him away in protest. They’re incredibly loud, even from the other room. The family sitting at the table looks over, annoyed.

A warm hand brushes against Marc’s arm, holding on softly before Kris is turning and walking back over to the small poolroom.

“You gonna stand there all night?” Kris smirks.

It’s an odd feeling, because a brief touch of skin and Marc’s falling again, swirling into unknown territory with someone he’s just met, someone who lights Marc’s nerves on fire when he’s around. And thirty minutes ago, he was sitting on his couch, staring at his reflection in a darkened TV screen, but now he’s here and Marc is following Kris into a room full of people who want Marc to be there too. Static electricity coils underneath his skin, stuttering the breaths in his lungs and something like _excitement_ crackles inside Marc.

The guys cheer and grin and welcome Marc in the middle of their pool game, Duper pressing a cool beer into his palm. Kuni hands Sid a crumpled five from his pocket with a scowl. Sid accepts it with a reserved smirk, folding it and pressing it into his back pocket. Marc eyes the action dubiously.

“They placed bets whether or not you’d actually show up,” Duper grins, taking a sip of his beer.

“Wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” Marc says absentmindedly, watching Kris grab a pool cue leaning against the table, walking calmly, smoothly, to join Geno looking for a better angle for a shot. His forearm muscles flex and tighten as he grips the pool stick, lining up his strike with the little white ball, eyes concentrated. He hits the ball head on with a loud _thwack,_ sending the colorfully clumped balls scattering, but none of them go in. Kris stands up to his full height, admiring his work before flicking his gaze back to Marc, pursed smile on his lips, almost beckoning Marc forward. Marc stays planted where he is next to Duper, frozen in place, still holding his untouched beer.

And yeah, Marc feels like he’s floating, like Kris only has eyes for him in this moment, but he also knows that Kris doesn’t really care that much about him, that Kris has a girlfriend and only would ever want Marc when he got bored or didn’t have Catherine to satisfy him, and maybe a week ago that would’ve been enough for Marc, but right now, something is different. With Kris staring at him like that, everyone else in the room seemingly oblivious, that little part of Marc’s brain sort of wants Kris to come over and just hug him close, nothing sexual about it, just gentle and caring. Kris bites his lip. Marc can feel the blood rushing to his cheeks and looks away.

For a while, it’s just the sounds of pool, loud voices, and laughing that fills the room. They order pizza and eat as they play, talking about upcoming regular season games and parties and professors. There’s a hazy radiance about the room after three beers and Marc is having more fun than he thought he would listening to Geno and Sid fight over who paid for the last round and Duper making sly, slurred jokes in messy French that only Marc and Kris really understand. The night is winding down and Marc is sitting on one of the tables with Sid, finishing off the crust of his fourth slice of pizza that he knows he’ll feel the next time they do cardio. Out of the blue, Kuni brings up Catherine.

“Hey, Tanger, how’s your girlfriend… what’s her name again? Katie? Haven’t seen her around in a while,” the comment doesn’t seem that strange to anyone else in the room, it just sounds like he’s making cool conversation, but Kris stiffens anyway. He’s gathering all the balls into the little triangle to set up for one last round.

“She’s, uh, fine,” Kris says quietly, not correcting Kuni on the name, keeping his eyes down uncomfortably.

Marc doesn’t say anything when Kris maintains a flicker of his gaze before sheepishly shifting his gaze to the cue ball.

“Yeah, she used to come to everything,” Sid notes good-naturedly.

“Did she drop out or something?” Duper grins and Geno laughs.

Marc shifts his weight uncomfortably.

“We uh, sort of broke up… last week…” Marc says in a low voice, cheeks pink, adjusting and readjusting his hat.

_Oh._

“Man, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—,” Kuni starts awkwardly.

“S’fine,” Kris gives a reassuring, tight-lipped smile followed by an unconvincing curt nod.

Marc stares at Kris, wide-eyed.

_Last week? Last week. Before we…?_

He tries to think back to when it could’ve possibly happened, but as Marc can recall, Kris was in a shit mood all of last week anyway, as usual, so he can’t possibly pick a finite day when it happened. Maybe Kris just isn’t a relationship kind of guy. Or maybe Catherine found someone else. Marc tries to imagine that he’s the reason Kris broke up with Catherine, but it sounds like some kind of tacky ass cliché, so Marc ignores the thought.

Marc grabs his coat off one of the bare tables.

“I, um, forgot I have a lab due tonight at midnight. I should go,” Marc is already tugging his arms through his sleeves and fumbling with the dumb zipper that never zips the right way, making himself look like the biggest dumbass ever.

And Kris is staring at him with a certain infatuation in his stare and fuck, Marc has to leave _right now._

“Okay?” Duper states blankly, watching Marc check his pockets for his phone.

“I might as well go too, I’ve got morning classes tomorrow anyway,” Kris shrugs, and that is exactly the opposite of what Marc wanted. He can’t be near Kris right now. He can’t be near Kris ever because now Kris is single and Marc thinks he kind of likes that idea, but he shouldn’t; he can’t let himself think that Kris would want to be with him, because Kris doesn’t like him like that.

“Well, you guys are no fun,” Kuni knocks back the rest of his drink.

Kris has his coat on. Marc still can’t find his phone. He’s on the verge of frantic until Kris is grabbing it off the pool table and tossing it to him.

“See you guys tomorrow,” Kris gives a cool wave, exiting through the back exit that says “Not an Exit. May Set Off Alarm.”

Marc follows him anyway, bracing himself for the cool windy air. The street is empty at 10:11 PM. Their footsteps hit the ground unsynchronized, the noise stale and out of place.

Marc stares at the dark sidewalk.

He doesn’t want Kris to talk. He doesn’t want to hear his voice right now. Catherine deserves better than this. Oh God, what if Marc _is_ the reason? Then he’s partially at fault, isn’t he? Then he was an incentive to hurt Catherine, who didn’t do anything wrong.

Marc stops walking. They’re right outside a Starbucks. Kris reluctantly stops too.

“Why _?”_ Marc says, and it’s a little louder than a whisper. He won’t look at Kris.

“Why what?” Kris’ expression is soft and Marc wants to punch him in the mouth.

“Why did you _do_ it?” Marc says and it’s borderline aggressive.

“Do _what?_ Marc, I don’t know what you’re—,” He’s not angry or upset. He sounds almost genuinely concerned.

“Why’d you break up with her? Catherine? Why’d you do it?” Marc snaps.

And Kris is dead still. He observes Marc distantly with such fascination and Marc is anxious with his silence.

“Tell me!” Marc shouts. He’s _shaking._

“I don’t know,” Kris quips. He’s standing so still, watching Marc’s every move, like Marc is a skittish, injured deer he just shot and he wouldn’t dare make any sudden movements as he corners him lest he scares Marc back into the woods.

Marc is dumbfounded.

He continues walking, quickly, hoping Kris doesn’t follow him.

He does.

“Wait! Marc!” Kris jogs to catch up, grabbing onto Marc’s arm, beckoning him to stop.

Marc tries to wrench his arm free, but Kris’ grasp is firm.

 _“Get off,”_ Marc hisses.

“Just _wait_ ,” Kris whispers, looking around as if someone might see.

“Why did you invite me back to your room? Huh? Why did we do what we did? I thought it was ‘a one time thing?’ What about that, Kris?” Marc shoots questions rapid-fire, sparked with anger, glare baring straight into Kris.

_Why would you get my hopes up like this? Where’s all this coming from? You’re an ass to me then you like me and then you’re back to being an ass._

Kris looks hurt for about .5 seconds and then his expression shifts to irritation.

“Are you _embarrassed_ with what we did?” Marc’s voice is laced with venom.

Kris says nothing, expression guarded and deadly through the dim street.

“Why’d you fuck me then?” Something breaks down in Marc’s voice, he’s not angry anymore so much as _tired_. Silence poisons the air. Marc can feel chills running across his skin. “Do you not want to do it again?” Marc says quietly. He feels cold and so far from comfort. Hanging out tonight was a mistake, he concludes.

“Yes, I mean no. What I mean is I want to, I just—,” Kris’ hand is loosening on Marc’s arm.

“Then what is it?” Marc interrupts coldly. His voice is even but delicate, like his words might drift away in the wind and never reach Kris.

“I don’t know, I’ve never done this before,” Kris says quickly. It’s foreign in Marc’s ears, Kris’ uncertainty. He’s always so sure, so confident.

“What’re we even doing?” Marc says, more to himself than the other person standing on the sidewalk with him.

“We’re just, I don’t know, messing around,” Kris states simply.

The sentence hits Marc like a train. That’s all it is to him. Messing around. No feelings, no attachment, just fucking.

Marc pulls his arm away, taking a step back from Kris.

He slides his hands into his pockets, suddenly dizzy. They continue down the sidewalk again, almost like nothing happened. _Almost_.

And if the bus ride back is awkwardly silent, neither admits it, looking in the other direction or at their phones, pretending nothing is wrong. But Marc can feel it in his gut, the dull pain of being mistaken, of being _wrong_.

_He doesn’t like you, idiot._

He deadpans with glazed eyes at the empty seat in front of him.

“See you tomorrow,” Kris says as the bus stops near his dorm, giving Marc a nod as he stands. For a moment, it looks as if he might put his hand on Marc’s shoulder. He doesn’t. Marc says nothing, can’t even watch Kris leave.

The bus rolls forward down the blackened campus. When did he start liking Kris? When did this happen? How did this happen? Kris showed no affection towards him even in the slightest, from the very beginning. And yet, Marc is somehow upset over Kris’ revelation that he, in fact, desires nothing more from Marc than sex.


End file.
